


you can be just what i want

by gdgdbaby, insunshine



Series: the small world you call your own [1]
Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Adults Having Conversations, Developing Commune, Group Sex, M/M, Multi, Open Relationships, Polyamory, Relationship Negotiation, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-06-29 09:29:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 86,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15726663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gdgdbaby/pseuds/gdgdbaby, https://archiveofourown.org/users/insunshine/pseuds/insunshine
Summary: Lovett's working three fingers inside of himself, sweating and breathing hard, when Ronan says, "So have you given it some more thought?"





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> or: how lovett learned to stop worrying and love his people.
> 
> we started writing this late last november, before holiday plans had solidified for any of the couples in this story, which is why the events that occur herein shake out a little differently than the real timeline. aside from the insertion of a made-up ski trip, we tried to stick as closely to ~canon as possible.

If there's anything worse than waking up hungover, Lovett has yet to discover it. A persistent headache pounds between his ears, down the back of his neck and in the knobs of his spine. His mouth tastes like something died in it.

Next to him in bed, Ronan's slumped on his side, as rumpled and angelic as a dream. Typical. Lovett wants to look at him for hours. He can't quite remember why that's not possible today. 

Lovett sighs and rolls close, pressing a kiss to Ronan's forehead, the bridge of his nose. His cheek. Ronan hasn't stirred yet, even though Lovett's jostling enough to wake him. It's rare enough that they get to have a morning like this, and rarer still for Lovett to be awake first, to get to see Ronan so relaxed. He leans in again, fuck the morning breath and the brain-splintering hangover. Sex is supposed to be like hair of the dog when it comes to this shit, right?

A buzzing noise behind his head, somewhere in the direction of the dresser, derails those thoughts. It's loud, and it's insistent, and—fuck, it's getting louder.

"Ronan," Lovett mumbles, sneaking his hand out of their blanket cocoon to poke him. "Ronan. Wake up. The alarm."

Instead of opening his eyes, Ronan burrows deeper into the sheets, the cascade of bangs flopping dramatically over his forehead, especially loose without any product left in them.

"Fuck," Lovett groans, pushing himself up on his palms. The alarm is annoying as hell, probably because they'd programmed several of them for this exact scenario. "Ronan."

It doesn't work. Slamming his palm against the mattress doesn't work either, and Lovett is starting to get dizzy from the reverberations. He drops his hand to Ronan's shoulder, lovely and warm and bare, and shakes as hard as his hands will let him.

"Hmm," Ronan mumbles. For a second, it seems like he might wake up, but instead he burrows down again and lets out a deep breath.

Lovett closes his eyes, head falling back against their pillow nest. Maybe they can sleep through it. Alarms are stupid. Being awake is stupid. "I am never drinking alcohol again," he says out loud. From her perch at the foot of the bed, Pundit woofs at him. She keeps her pitch low, because she must understand his desperate need for quiet. "You are an angel," he tells her, petting the mattress, even though he doesn't have the energy or the higher brain function to shift over all the way and reach her. "Ronan," he whines. The piercing alarms just won't quit.

For the record, his phone isn't where it usually is. When he remembers to charge it, which is most of the time, he always leaves it on the nightstand, but when he peeks over his shoulder, he doesn't see it. It has to be somewhere, because it's loud, but he can't see it, and if he can't see it, he has no idea how the fuck he's going to make it stop.

"Mm." Ronan rolls over onto his side and shifting so that his fingers skim over Lovett's ribs. "Hey, baby," he mumbles, eyes still closed. 

He's loose and pliant, and he scoots closer, using Lovett's waist as an anchor. It would be so easy to lean into him, but there's something in Lovett's brain that's screaming at him to pay attention. 

"Do not call me that," Lovett mumbles, a token protest at this point. He flushes as Ronan skates his fingers along his stomach. The alarm gets louder and louder, and finally, Lovett remembers. "Ronan. Your flight."

In an ideal world, they'd stay in bed the rest of the day, fuck Ronan's flight and his deadlines and both of their responsibilities. This is not an ideal world, and Lovett can tell the exact moment Ronan recognizes it too. "Fuck," he echoes.

"Yeah," Lovett agrees. They've been doing this for years, but it hasn't gotten any easier.

Ronan rolls over to grope through the bedside drawer on his side, comes back up with a bottle of Advil. "Always prepared," he croaks, and Lovett huffs out a laugh, ducking in to press his mouth against Ronan's throat as he dry-swallows around a couple of a pills.

They can't linger. Lovett knows that. That doesn't mean he has to fucking like it.

In the time it takes them to pull themselves out of bed—for Ronan to gather all his things into his carry-on and for Lovett to find his phone, turn off the damn alarms, check his messages, read the text from Emily saying she still has his keys from the karaoke party last night, and dig through his drawers looking for the spares to his Jeep—the painkillers finally kick in.

 _Thanks_ , he sends back to Emily, even though she probably won't see it for another couple hours. _Can I swing by later today to grab them?_

"You sure you're good to drive?" Ronan asks at the door, wire-rimmed glasses pushed up the bridge of his nose, hair still soft and mussed. "I can always Lyft to the airport." He takes one look at Lovett's face and the corner of his mouth lifts into a small smile. "Never mind. Forget I even brought it up. If we die in a conflagration on the 405, at least we'll have gone out with a bang."

"Oh ye of little faith," Lovett grouses and follows him out to the car. 

It's a quiet ride to LAX, punctuated by the sound of periodic honking and Pundit woofing quietly in Ronan's lap. Lovett would put on some music, but silence seems to fit the mood better. The sun's out in full force by the time he pulls up to the curb at departures. Ronan leans down to drop a kiss on Pundit's head, leaves her in the front seat as he opens the door and hops out, tugging his suitcase from the footwell. "Bye, darling. Be good for your dad, alright?"

"She's always good," Lovett mumbles, and then, "Safe flight," too tired and achy to think of something better to say.

"Miss you already," Ronan replies, and something about the way it comes out makes Lovett's chest twist, heart hanging heavy. He should be over this feeling by now. It's reckless to get so worked up. "You'll think about what we discussed?"

They discussed a lot of things over the weekend: their upcoming ski trip to Utah, the final book deadlines Ronan's rushing to meet, which onesie Lovett should wear to the karaoke birthday party. There's really only one that Ronan could mean, though—the latest installment in a series of larger conversations that they've been having for the better part of the year. Lovett's been trying very hard not to think about it, but he knows Ronan's patience isn't endless.

"I'll try," he says, dry-mouthed, slouching in his seat.

Ronan's gaze goes soft. "That's all I'm asking for. See you in Park City."

"Text when you land," Lovett says. Ronan waves, his other hand flexing around the handle of his suitcase. Then he's gone.

;;

Lovett crashes again when he gets home. His mouth tastes even worse when he rolls over to the early afternoon light streaming through the crack in his blackout curtains, but there's a text from Emily saying to come over whenever, bring Pundit, help them finish their leftover Postmates from the Thai place. That's something.

 _I need to shower_ , he sends her. _once I remember how to use my feet, that's my num1 goal._

He's used to sending her ridiculous texts just to see how she'll respond, and she doesn't disappoint, sending back three eye-rolling emojis and, _feet, shower, keys, Thai? How did you even get to the airport?_ After a moment, she adds, _I can't believe either of you got behind the wheel of a car today._

 _obviously, we flew a magic carpet_ , he responds. 

Before getting up, he takes exactly three seconds to roll over and smush his face into Ronan's side of the bed, and then drags himself into the bathroom. He turns the water on while he brushes his teeth, but in the end, he can't do it. His shirt smells like Ronan. His _skin_ still smells like Ronan, and he's not ready to let that go.

He rubs on deodorant, pulls a Friend of the Pod sweatshirt over the shirt he wore to the airport, and swaps his sleep sweats for a real pair of jeans so that he'll at least outwardly present adulthood.

"Pundit," he says, whistling for her when she doesn't immediately appear. "We're going to see Emily and Jon and Leo, okay? We're going outside."

She barks approvingly. Outside is her favorite place. He scoops her up as he locks the door, and on the street, she strains to get down and run across to the old house. The shock of needing to _drive_ to Emily and Jon's has dulled with time, but once they hit the car, Pundit bops her snout against the window, still confused about why. 

"We'll see them soon," he tells her, and she cocks her head, woofing like she gets it. Maybe she does. It wouldn't surprise him if dogs were smarter than anybody ever gave them credit for.

The streets are pretty empty for a Sunday afternoon, so Lovett speeds a little, pulling into the driveway of the Favreaus' new place in five minutes flat. 

"You look like shit," Emily says instead of hello. She's never been afraid to tell him so before, and Lovett cracks a smile as Pundit scampers past their legs and into the house.

"I'm all about truth in advertising," Lovett agrees. He's pretty proud of the fact that his voice doesn't break. Emily's eyes go soft anyway, and she brushes a hand against Lovett's elbow as she steps back to let him through the door.

Lovett's spent countless weekend afternoons lazing at Jon and Emily's, mooching off their leftovers, but he feels especially pathetic today, a lethal combination of end-of-year exhaustion and Ronan leaving and the Sunday blues. It seems impossibly unfair that he still has to go into work tomorrow. Unfair that the world still keeps turning.

Emily grabs Lovett's keys out of her purse and hands them over, joining him slouched over on the sectional in their living room. "Where's Jon?" he asks, watching Pundit and Leo scurry around the coffee table.

"In the outside room, watching TV and working out on the Peloton," Emily says, tucking her feet beneath his calves. "Or maybe just scrolling through Twitter and sitting on the Peloton."

"Sounds about right," Lovett says, too moody to even use it as a springboard for a half-hearted joke. "What have you been doing?" She has that look on her face like she's going to be kind to him, and he feels too raw to bear it, honestly.

Emily sighs, wriggling her toes against his leg. "Making lists for my last few days at Sunshine Sachs. It's weird. You know?" She laughs. "You do know! You out of everybody. It's scary."

He nods. "I convinced myself I wasn't second guessing anything until I was halfway out the door, and by that point, I couldn't do anything about it."

"I remember," Emily says, and then, "You wanna talk about it?" low and quiet. 

"Quitting my job at the White House seven years ago for a failed television writing career? I'm over it, but my therapist says—"

"Lovett." She cuts him off, but that's really all she needs to say. 

He doesn't want to talk about his relationship troubles often, but he's always liked that Emily gives him the option. He digs his fingers into his closed eyes, exhaling slowly. 

"I keep thinking," he says, and his voice does waver a little this time, but he presses on, staring at the fringe on the throw blanket beside them. "I keep thinking it's going to get easier, watching him leave, and it never does." It's not the only thing, but it's the most immediate one right now, a hollow ache pushing up against his throat.

"Yeah," she mumbles, and when Lovett looks up at her again, she's staring down at where Leo's nosing the fluffy rug. "The semester Jon was in Chicago at the IOP sucked, and that was just five months." The corner of her mouth curls. "I really don't know how you do it."

Lovett thinks, _Sometimes I don't know, either_ , but he doesn't say it. Emily's a lot of things, but she's not actually his therapist. Just a good friend. A better one than he deserves, probably, letting him bring the dark cloud of his grumpiness to her house, but—Lovett's got enough looping through his head. He doesn't have to add those anxieties to the mix, too.

The back door of the house snicks open, and Jon pulls himself through it a moment later. "Hey," he says, grinning, and scoops Pundit into his arms as she runs over, Leo on her heels. "Pundo! My favorite niece. What's up, guys?"

Lovett watches Jon kiss each of their heads in turn, laughing when Pundit licks him and then immediately tries to wriggle out of his grip. "Yikes," he says, trying to pitch his voice so that it sounds like a joke. "You smell so bad even my dog doesn't want to be near you? Disgusting. Take a shower."

Jon rolls his eyes. "Okay, Mr. Clean. Like you're one to talk." 

There's no possible way for Jon to know Lovett hasn't showered in three days. He can feel himself blushing and tries to ignore it, letting his body melt into the couch again until his feet are up on the coffee table, head hovering on the pillow by Emily's elbow.

"How are we feeling about dinner?" Jon asks, sliding onto the couch on Lovett's other side and poking his knee. 

Up close, the Favreau curse proves that Jon's barely even sweating. Lovett doesn't care enough to try and smell him, but if he wanted to, he's positive Jon would be as bright and fresh as a daisy. Of course.

"It's a miracle I don't hate you," Lovett mumbles. He can feel it when Emily laughs. He tenses when she drops her hand to the top of his head, but she doesn't do anything other than briefly scratch her fingers through his hair, which is more relaxing than it has any right to be. 

"I'm wounded," Jon says, sticking out his full bottom lip in an impressive, if wholly unbelievable pout. "Barging into my house, cuddling my wife, rebuffing my offer to feed you…"

"I didn't _rebuff_ it," Lovett says, pushing back up into a sitting position. He can see Jon's side of the silent conversation they're having above his head. It's infuriating and hilarious all at once. "Who says no to free food?" 

"Oh, so you aren't paying? Not even a little kickback from the Cash App?"

"They're leftovers, for one: who pays for leftovers? If anything, I am doing you a _favor_ but also, two, I was invited!"

"Oh, wow, do you _never_ pay when you're invited out to dinner?" Jon argues. "Hmm. Hmm. That actually makes a lot of sense for you. I should graph this. I should have one of the interns graph this, so we can really get the most out of our concentrated data."

It's meaner than Jon usually is, and Lovett is outraged, maybe, somewhere deep down, but he's laughing too hard to really investigate it.

"The interns already hate you," Lovett says, stretching out more and finally letting his body relax. "Do not add fuel to that fire."

"They do not," says Jon. Clearly, he's also trying to sound outraged, but he's failing at it miserably if the grin on his face is anything to go by. "I'm the one who tells them to go on break and also writes their letters of recommendation." 

"Hey!" Lovett says. "Sometimes I buy their food! I buy them food all the time!" He rolls his eyes to look up Emily upside down. "That counts, right? Tell him it counts. Be on my side."

Instead of siding with either of them, she laughs too.

Lovett doesn't fall asleep on their couch, despite his exhaustion, but it's easy to zone out while they talk about things above him: casual things, couple things, Emily asking Jon to remember to grab the dry cleaning the next time he's down that far on La Cienega, whether or not they're going to tag along to the cast party after Andy's pilot taping tomorrow. Their voices are so familiar he'd be able to pick out their symphony anywhere. He wants to say that, or at least say something about how grateful he is, but he doesn't have the words.

"I told you I was grabbing drinks with Tessa and Hanna on Thursday, right? I can't remember if I made you add it to your cal," Emily says, holding out her hand for Jon's phone.

She snaps her fingers and laughs when he says, "How do you always know when I don't remember things?"

"Instead of spidey-sense, we call that 'wifey-sense'," Lovett says, biting his lip in tandem with Emily, watching as she tries valiantly not to laugh. 

Jon does laugh, full bodied as always, his shoulders shaking as he sinks back against the couch. He's giggling so hard it takes him a few tries to speak, wiping at the corners of his eyes. 

"Fuck, Lovett, that might actually be the dumbest joke you've ever made. What if you just set a new record?"

"Come on," Lovett says, wriggling when he feels his phone vibrate in his front pocket. "You're still laughing. And—don't exaggerate. We had some late, punchy nights writing all those energy speeches. I must have said dumber shit then."

" _You_ had some late punchy nights," Jon argues, bumping their shoulders together. Lovett was right. He smells fantastic. "I was always calm under pressure."

"We all have things we tell ourselves to feel good, I suppose," Lovett says, directing the comment to Emily and unlocking his phone when it buzzes again. 

It's a text thread from Ronan that reads, _landed_ , and then _I love you_ and then _sorry if I don't say it enough._

Emily and Jon are bickering about who should heat up the leftovers, so hopefully they aren't paying attention to him, or how red his face must be from the sudden itchiness in his eyes.

 _You say it plenty_ he thumbs back, blinking twice to clear his vision. This is not the time or the place for his next question, but he poses it anyway. _Should I move to New York?_

They've had this conversation roughly two thousand times since Ronan completed his studies (mostly—that thesis is going to finish itself any day now) and decided his home base should be on the east coast. It's not quite what Ronan asked him to think about when he left this morning, but it's not unrelated; it's just easier to consider when he already knows the answer to his own question.

 _If this HBO thing works out, I'll be in town even more often_ , Ronan texts back immediately, instead of saying _yes_. He's never going to say yes. It has to be Lovett's decision. He's made that abundantly clear over the years.

"What are you sighing about over there?" Emily asks, leaning over like she's going to peek at his phone screen, even though he knows she won't. Lovett can hear Jon humming from the kitchen. He must have lost the battle over oven duty, then. 

"Hey," Lovett says, pulling his leg up beneath him and straightening his glasses as he looks at her.

"Hey," she says, grinning at him. "What's up?"

"Do you, uh. Do you remember that thing I told you about? The—the sex thing? With Ronan?"

He's not being particularly clear, but to her credit, Emily doesn't miss a beat. "Yeah," she says. She mirrors her posture to his, but doesn't lean in to touch him the way he can tell she wants to. "Of course I do."

"Do you think I should," he says, pausing to exhale. "It's stupid not to, um. I think it stresses him out that I don't. That I am not also doing that. Sleeping around, or whatever." 

In the corner of the room, Pundit has made it her business to climb onto Leo's sunbed and fall asleep. Just looking at her makes his swiftly pounding pulse calm down.

"I think you should do what makes you feel good," she says. Something about the way she says it—careful, delicate—catches Lovett's attention, makes him sit a little straighter. Lovett hasn't told her everything about what he and Ronan do, the ways they cope with being apart so often, but she's always been sharp. She saw past Jon's ratty True Religion jeans, anyway, back in the day. "Jon," she says now, voice more insistent, like she knows he feels like turtling up again. "For what it's worth, I think Ronan just wants that for you, too."

"What's that?" Jon asks, coming to stand in the mouth of the kitchen. "Did you say something?"

Emily tilts her head, smiling encouragingly in his direction. "I was just trying to talk some sense into Lovett. How do you think it's going?"

Lovett stares down at his phone, where Ronan has sent, _I just want you to be in the place you should be. If that's in New York, I obviously want you in New York._

"Work in progress?" Jon guesses. He laughs when Lovett lifts his head and wrinkles his nose at him.

"At least I'm consistent," Lovett says. He types out, _I know. I love you too_ , shoulders prickling, and folds his phone into his pocket again. Prods his mouth into a facsimile of a smile. "So. Where's the food?"

;;

Monday morning, Lovett wakes up to news of a pipe bomb threat in Midtown and a text from Ronan saying he's fine and not to worry; the news cycle moves rapidly downhill from there, as its been wont to do for the past year and change.

Ronan calls when Lovett gets home that night, Skypes in freshly showered. It's barely seven, and Lovett hasn't eaten yet, but it's good to see his face. It's always good to see his face.

Sometimes, when they do this, they just spend hours watching each other play video games, but Ronan loses his shirt about five minutes into the call, and after that, the rest is pretty much a foregone conclusion. Lovett's working three fingers inside of himself, sweating and breathing hard, when Ronan says, "So have you given it some more thought?"

It's hard to fingerfuck himself one handed, and also find a decent angle for the camera where he doesn't look like a sweating pig, but he's managing. 

At least he was.

He loses his precarious one-armed balance and slumps back against the mattress. "What?"

Sometimes there are desires he'd rather ignore. Some people want to add mayo to their salad, even though it's the devil's condiment, but you love them, and so you ignore it, for your sanity, even though kissing someone with mayo breath is—Ronan looks unruffled as he repeats himself. "Would you do it, if it were my idea? Would that ease some of the guilt for you?"

"Uh," Lovett hedges, the sound high and breathy in a way that he hates. He slides his fingers out of himself slowly, ignores the twinge of soreness in his ass, and pushing up into a sitting position. 

This is definitely a face-to-face conversation, so he balances the iPad on his knees, trying to make sure he's looking into the camera instead of at his own disheveled appearance. His curls are a mess. He doesn't even have to be looking to see, and he tries not to fidget with them or jam a cap over his head to hide them from view. 

"Do we have to talk about this right now?" he says, reaching for the towel he'd grabbed for clean up and wiping off his hands. He tries on a smile. "We were having so much fun."

Ronan shrugs on his end of the call. He's sweating, bangs clumped against his forehead in a way that should be unattractive, but mostly just makes him look sweet.

"Babe," he says, leaning in closer, like his proximity to the camera is going to make this any less ludicrous. "I'm just saying. It's okay to go for the things you want."

"Don't call me that," Lovett says automatically, because Ronan knows it's a low blow when Lovett's insides already feel like goo, and then, "You're cracked," which is not an outright denial. He was almost a lawyer, so he knows how this goes, okay? Don't lie, unless it's absolutely necessary, and even then, add as much truth to it as you possibly can.

"So if I wasn't in the picture," Ronan, who actually is a lawyer, says. "If it were just you, this isn't something you'd be pursuing?"

Honestly, and Lovett can say this with utmost confidence, it's not. 

"Absolutely not," he says, and he feels good about it being the truth. "Don't fuck your friends. That's my motto. Also don't fuck the business partners with whom you spend a great deal of your waking hours. I think there's a lesson in there too about perhaps not going into business with your friends, but honestly, Tommy has been doing my taxes for almost as long as I've been paying taxes. If it's good enough for the IRS, it's good enough for me."

"Jonathan," Ronan says on a breath, speaking in that calm, patient tone that Lovett craves and sometimes hates himself for craving.

He has a premonition of how the rest of his evening is going to go, and it involves less Skype sex and more humiliation. He can feel it.

"Ronan," he whines back, ducking out of view so he can tug on the t-shirt he was wearing before they decided to get naked. 

He pulls himself back into frame and gets caught in Ronan again. His eyes are so blue. Lovett can almost feel his gaze through the fucking tablet like a caress. "I know how much you like sex. You know how much I do too. We both know that Tommy and Jon have swapped partners once or twice… I'm just saying. It's not out of the realm of possibility that they would be interested."

He stops abruptly, and Lovett watches him as ducks his head. It's good, really, that they've picked up each other's avoidance tactics over the years. At least, when fingers are pointed, they can both admit to being cowards. 

"I do like sex, but who needs another person to get laid?" Lovett hedges, trying to muddle through the low-level anxiety percolating through his limbs. "My brain and my hands work just fine. I got this new—Adam & Eve were considering a sponsorship on the show, and they offered me a basketful of stuff to try. I'm fine."

He widens his eyes, hoping he looks sincere instead of terrified. Besides, it's not like they didn't know this shit about each other, not like they haven't played around with other people over the last six years. They were exclusive and monogamous for their brief overlap in DC, and then exclusive and non-monogamous when he moved to LA, and Ronan was in London, and now, now they're in this weird bit of limbo where Ronan sometimes fucks his friends, gets fucked by his friends, whatever, and Lovett doesn't, because he tends to get too attached to people he's sleeping with. He has a goddamn _boyfriend_ now. An orgasm or two is not more important than that.

"Is that really all you want?" Ronan asks. His voice is almost deceptively soft, as if Lovett isn't aware of all his tricks already. 

"That doesn't work on me," he snarks back, grateful for the reprieve as he tugs at the hem of his shirt. It feels better, having a layer like this between them, even though Ronan is still naked and languishing in it. God.

"Is it?" Ronan asks, ignoring him and cutting to the heart of the matter, as usual.

They're both good at bullshit: selling it, running with it, profiting from it. He knows that, but he's also pretty good at being snowed by it too, knows that Ronan's playing him, even as he seems so sincere. It makes him smile, fondness rushing through him like water, even though that panic is still there too, taking permanent residence in his gut, like a rent controlled apartment in Manhattan.

"No," Lovett says at last, trying to blink the sudden sting away from his eyes.

"That's what I thought," Ronan says, mouth quirking.

Lovett shrugs, itchy between his shoulder blades. "You're an aggressive know-it-all."

"You love that about me," Ronan says, and then he laughs, eyes crinkling. Fuck, Lovett would do anything to keep those smiles coming. If he knows anything about himself, it's that. They're not as good on a pixelated screen as they would be in real life, but it's okay. Lovett will take whatever he can get.

"Yeah, I do. I really—yeah." Lovett's throat is still tight.

Ronan smiles broadens. "Me too."

"Would you," Lovett says, trying to envision a situation where the conversation would even be possible. "Listen, one, more likely both of them might say no. This is an objectively terrible idea. It's worse than when they swap partners because there's—there's gay shit involved."

"Come on. Don't do that. Tommy is—"

"I know, I know," Lovett says. "Tommy's bi. Big deal. I'm just saying, it's different. I have to assume it's different with Jon."

"You don't think, in the last ten years—"

"Closer to fifteen—"

"Even better," Ronan says, indefatigable. "You really think, in the last fifteen years, that Jon and Tommy haven't fooled around? Baby, come on."

" _Baby_ ," Lovett mocks. "It's none of my business what they do, what they've _done_. They don't… just because you're into dick doesn't mean my dick is one you're going to be interested in. Come on, that's like, 'we're okay to share a locker room with' 101."

"You don't know that."

"Okay," Lovett says, letting his skepticism drip. "Let's say that Jon or Tommy somehow gets on board with the idea of buddyfucking with me." Might as well call it what it is. "Let's just say they do, on an alternate plane where people like me actually get to fuck more than one beautiful person at a time. How do we do this? Are you in the room? Do you Skype in? Is it officially sanctioned? Do I call you and tell you after? Do I have to get permission every time? Is it a one-time thing?"

Off camera, his fingers bite bruises into the meat of his upper thighs.

"What would be the point of only one time?" Ronan asks, and Lovett shuts his eyes so fast that he sees spots in the corners of his vision. "You wouldn't want that."

"I would, if you wanted it to be," he says quietly, not opening his eyes, because it's safer in the dark. "Fuck, Ronan. You say it's a one-time thing, and it's a one-time thing, you ask me to find somebody else, and okay, maybe I wouldn't have the pick of the litter, but I could probably find someone who wouldn't be repulsed by the idea of mutual orgasms, and perhaps having them in a way where my boyfriend was also somehow involved."

"Elijah does have a crush on you," Ronan says, a laugh in his voice.

"Shut up," Lovett mutters, feeling his skin heating, eyes flying open. "Don't you start on that, too. Tommy was teasing him about it the other day, and I thought he'd turned into a plume of smoke, that's how fast he took off."

On-screen, Ronan frowns. "Tommy was making fun of your employee? In the office? Inappropriate."

"Ronan," Lovett says, because of all the inappropriate things that happen in their office on a daily basis, this wouldn't even crack the top fifty, and Elijah would agree. "It wasn't even in the office. It was at Chipotle, after the Monday taping last week. Elijah wanted to video through dinner, and he said something about my haircut—"

"You mean _you_ said something about your haircut."

It's stupid, that this, too, makes Lovett smile, but it does. He can't help it. "It was probably me, yeah," Lovett says. "Regardless, Tommy made a joke. Tommy was not sexually harassing our social media person. I don't often tell you to get off the soap box, but Tommy isn't somebody you have to worry about."

Ronan raises his eyebrows. "I worry about everybody."

"This got serious fast," Lovett says, scrambling. "You want me to walk you through how I'm going to fuck you over the back of a couch when I see you next? The cabin in Utah for Christmas? Or maybe what we'll do at the farm—I hope your mom bought those plastic slipcovers I sent her the link for."

Ronan winces, his cheeks coloring, and finally, finally he's embarrassed too. "Can we not discuss Mia while we also discuss having sex?"

"She wouldn't care," Lovett argues, which is correct, and they both know it. "Do you want me to talk about how I'm going to fuck you on the mattress in the guest house? I got her some Parachute sheets for the whole place, so in this fantasy, we can both imagine how soft they'll be. Come on, I know I just saw you, but let's not waste this opportunity."

Ronan laughs, full throated, and Lovett's stomach swoops as he watches it, even though they've seen all there is to see of one another and then some.

"I would rather discuss how Tommy would fuck you from behind against the vanity in the bathroom," Ronan says after a little while. "You know he'd do it. With those big hands? Come on."

Lovett meets his eyes on the iPad, feeling his stomach clench, even as his dick starts getting hard again. Fucking hell.

"Just because he and Hanna are open doesn't mean he wants to hit on me. Don't you think he would have done it by now." He's so breathless he can't even make it a question. He knows the answer, anyway. He would have known if Tommy had even the slightest bit of interest.

"Do you want that?" Ronan asks. 

"I try not to think about it," Lovett says. He doesn't always succeed, but the imminent advent of American fascism has helped Lovett ward off surplus idle daydreams of Tommy's hands on him, even if his butt is more of a distraction in the office than not. Lovett can't force much inflection in his voice, and he hopes Ronan can't tell. Ronan looks like he wants to argue, so he goes on, abruptly changes tacks in an effort to throw him off. "What if it's terrible, and then we never get any work done again, because we both keep thinking about how Tommy fucked me because my boyfriend said he could, and it was awful, and we're incompatible, and have to keep working together anyway? I might have to live on your couch and remote in for a while."

Ronan laughs again, which is nice, even if it wasn't exactly what Lovett was going for. It's always good to be reminded of how funny he is, but it's also terrifying, thinking of that very real outcome. Tommy would be nice about it, too, which would be even worse, maybe, than him being cruel. He would be too nice, and that would make Lovett hate him.

"Ugh," Lovett says out loud, letting himself fall back against his pillows in mock despair. "I have to go to dinner at Jon and Emily's in an hour. I'm not going to be able to stop thinking about this. Thanks a lot."

On screen, Ronan raises a brow and says, "Sorry. But hey, you have dinner, you drink a little wine? Anything could happen."

"Maybe I'll cancel," Lovett says. 

"Why?" Ronan asks. "Are you worried you won't be able to control yourself? In all my years of knowing you, I've never seen you launch yourself across a table at Favreau before. Even if you did, I bet Emily would just laugh."

 _Sometimes I have to stop myself from fantasizing about your husband fucking me in our shared workplace_. Lovett imagines saying the words out loud. He imagines Emily's face, imagines her laughing and saying, _Hey, you're not alone. Me too._

"Were you thinking about it?" Ronan asks. He's joking, maybe, or maybe he was, but Lovett watches as something changes on his face. "Fuck."

"What?"

"I think I," Ronan says, and now he has his iPad balanced on his knees, fingers massaging his temples. "Fuck, I think I said something to Emily, maybe? I think I told her about…"

He has the nerve to trail off as Lovett peers at him through the tiny, insufficient video screen. "You told her about what? What could you have possibly told her that she doesn't already know about me? Ronan, she's seen the skirts. She's well aware."

Ronan looks up at him. His eyes are an enormous, limpid blue, and it's the same as always, this sensation of falling, like Lovett's losing his balance, scrabbling for purchase against a cliff face with no footholds. It's terrifying. He's addicted to it.

"I have a vague recollection of us singing at the karaoke place, and then getting more shots? She asked me about how things were going with the book, and one thing led to another, and I let this thing—this story slip. About Shannon, I think, since she was up on stage singing along to Katy Perry at the time."

Lovett can feel himself blushing, but he pushes through it. Sometimes Ronan's best friends fuck him. One of them wears a strap-on. It's fine. Of all the things he could and has gotten jealous over, this is not the one that tops the list.

"Okay," Lovett says, letting the word drag. "Emily knows that we're—experimenting. I've told her vague things before. Also while inebriated. Ronan, it's okay. Like, it's personal, but fuck, if the Favreaus didn't know things they didn't want to about my personal life, what kind of friends would they be?"

He tries to smile encouragingly through the camera. In the video window reflecting his face, he looks a little manic, but this kind of aching desperation can't always be helped.

"I think it was more than that," Ronan says, quietly morose. "Hell. I wish I could remember. I'm sorry." 

Lovett takes a breath, lets it out. "More how? More about what? What more is there?" 

Ronan shrugs. "I think maybe—maybe I said I'd been trying to—I was joking, you know. Trying to get you to broaden your horizons, right. Your scope. 'Sometimes a straight bro is not a straight bro,' you know?"

It's not the earth-shattering revelation it should be. More shock will filter in later, maybe, when he's supposed to be sitting across from Emily and Jon and saying—what is the Blue Apron meal this week? Some kind of enchilada recipe with a cheese sauce—maybe the mortification will come in then, looking across to Emily and her kind, open face, trying not to shoot him pitying glances. God, he was pathetic enough on Sunday afternoon that she'd invited him over to eat tonight, too, despite knowing whatever it is she might. Maybe he _should_ cancel.

"Are you mad?" Ronan asks. "Fuck, of course you're mad."

"Not mad," he says. "Just thinking. There's nothing to be mad about, but Ronan—I don't even need it. Not having another person in the room is not exactly high on my list of grievances."

It's also not low on his list of grievances. Like a Clinton presidency, or that photo of Trump getting spray-tanned in the Oval. He laughs at himself and tries to hide it. People crave chocolate mousse or Cookie Dough ice cream. They don't crave sex.

"Jonathan," Ronan says, and he sounds so sad and so serious that Lovett has to look at him again. "I would rather you have this thing you need from people who can give it to you than have you miss out on anything as a result of some—some fidelity pledge."

"I don't _need it_ ," Lovett repeats, hissing the words from behind his teeth, feels that panic monster rip his spine out, Mortal Kombat-style. "I need you. I want you. We should be—why are you pushing this now? We should be focusing on how we only see each other a couple of times a month if we're lucky, and not on—fuck. I've been jerking myself off for over twenty years, I know my way around a vibrator. I don't need anyone else."

"You're right, you're right. I'm sorry." After a few tense moments of quiet, he adds, "Are you mad that I do? Need it?" That he shifts off screen and pulls a shirt on speaks volumes about how this conversation is going. 

"No," Lovett says honestly, resisting the urge to pinch at the skin between his eyes or tug at his clothes again. 

Ronan was the one who told him those were his tells in the first place, years ago. It's always made him wonder what else Ronan saw and never mentioned.

"It's a biological imperative," Lovett hears himself say, and scowls at the smirk Ronan's trying to hide. "Oh, fuck you. You know it's not that easy."

Ronan sobers. "Yeah, baby. I know."

Lovett watches the way his eyes catch something off screen, how he frowns, even though he tries to hide that too.

"Shit, I have to go. I have a call about that thing," he says, snapping his gaze back. "You know."

Lovett does. A year ago, if someone had told him about wiretapping and hacking, secret societies specifically created to keep assault victims silent, well. Maybe he wouldn't have laughed, but he wouldn't have necessarily believed it, either. "Yeah," he says. "Go."

"I love you," Ronan says, the first to say it, even though Lovett means it just as much, with every part of himself that he has to share.

"Love you," he echoes, watching Ronan's face freeze as the video ends.

He doesn't dramatically flop against his pillows and cry, even though he could. He strips his shirt off again instead, heading into the ensuite to shower the sweat off, ignoring the unresolved ache in his gut, the residual arousal. He doesn't take his phone with him, accidentally-on-purpose, and is pleased to see he has a string of notifications when he gets out again.

 _Still coming over?_ Emily's asked, and Lovett winces as he types out: _Sorry, not feeling great. Raincheck?_ , taking the easy way out. It's not a lie, exactly, he feels awful, but it is an evasive maneuver. He just doesn't have the spoons right now.

She sends a frowny face and a heart back, and _Feel better!_

Lovett pushes past the low pulse of guilt in his chest and navigates to his other chats. _Hey._ says the message from Tommy, who is obsessed with proper punctuation even on WhatsApp. _Got a text from Ronan, guilt-tripping the hell out of me for not being at the party on Saturday. Said we didn't see each other enough as it is. Is he thinking about bailing on the cabin over the break? Don't tell me you're chickening out too. Snow is your friend, Lovett!_

He's added a snowflake and the eye rolling emoji too, which makes Lovett laugh despite himself, even as he's flopping back onto the bed and rolling onto his stomach to respond.

 _That would be news to me_ , he sends back, deliberately leaving off the period to see if it makes Tommy nuts. 

_Ronan or the snow?_ Tommy sends back immediately. 

_Both_ , he sends, and then goes about getting dressed, ignoring the soft buzzes his phone makes until it sounds like a call is coming in.

It's Ronan again. The corner of Lovett's mouth rises. "Well, hey there. Long time. Did you miss me?"

Ronan laughs, and says, "Always," completely sincerely, and then, "So hey, I don't think I'll be able to make the trip to Utah after all. I'm sorry. Something came up."

Lovett knows how breaking news stories go, especially ones as secretive and complicated as what Ronan has been working on lately. "Oh yeah?" he says, aiming to keep his voice light and easy as well. "That's a shame. Should we expect something new soon? Maybe about another public expose? Just as heinous, but maybe more orange, say?"

"Yeah, that's next on my list," Ronan says. "Right after the cure for cancer and world peace."

"I still vote for mine, honestly," Lovett argues. 

"I'll see what I can do," Ronan says, and then, "Seriously, though, apologize to everyone for me. I'll still kick in my portion of the down payment, whatever. I'll make it up to you."

He sounds so earnest. It's a struggle for Lovett to keep his face stern, but he's got to try.

"I just want you to know, even if they start up their wife swapping up at the cabin, there's no way I'm bringing it up while Emily and Hanna are there. They don't need—they don't need me butting in on their private stuff like I do everywhere else. I know you're just trying to help, but drunken confessions to Emily notwithstanding, this isn't something you can micromanage for me." 

"I know," Ronan says on an exhale. "Sorry, I know."

"And you really do have a thing?" Lovett asks.

Maybe it's this: they may have seen each other two days ago, but they live on opposite sides of the country, and the paltry amount of time they spend together is not enough. It's never enough. The idea that Ronan could throw that away over getting laid makes something ugly spasm in his stomach.

"I really do," Ronan says, voice softer than usual. "I would never bail on purpose, Jonathan. You know that."

"Yeah," Lovett says. "I know."

;;

On Tuesday night, at 7:26 West Coast time, the Associated Press calls the Alabama Senate race for Doug Jones. There's screaming, crying, laughing, an incomprehensible call with Dan, and a live stream in the studio ten minutes later; Lovett's way too sweaty to be on camera right now, but he doesn't even care. Fuck it. It's a night for celebrating. There's no space in his head to worry about pit rings right now.

 _DRINKS PLS_ , Tommy's sent to their group chat by the time they finish recording, excited enough for all caps and no punctuation, which—fair. Lovett takes the steps down to Jon's car two at a time, hits the call button with Pundit nestled in his lap as Jon pulls out of his parking spot.

"Hey," he says, grinning into the receiver. "Are you still with Deray?" 

"We're almost back from the prison in Lancaster," Tommy says, and on the other end of the line Lovett can hear faint music playing from the speakers of his car. It sounds suspiciously like Turn Down For What. "Should we reroute?"

"Yeah, bring him," Lovett says. He sinks back into his seat and closes his eyes against the cool evening breeze. "Invite everyone. The more the merrier."

He can feel Pundit licking at his chin as the line goes dead, and he wriggles a little, kicking his feet. The car slows for a light. When Lovett cracks an eye open again, Jon's glancing at him, the corner of his mouth lifted. The streetlights glint off the silver in his hair, and Lovett's traitorous stomach flips.

"What?" Lovett says, can't help smiling back.

"Just glad you're in a better mood," Jon says, dry, and—frankly, Lovett is, too.

They end up at a bar off the highway, crowded into a couple of booths near the back. "I give everyone permission to come in late tomorrow," Jon says solemnly, to loud cheers from Tanya and Elijah.

The first shot goes down easy, the smooth burn of vodka in the back of Lovett's mouth, and then everything else is a blur of clinking glasses, brightly colored umbrellas and crushed ice. At some point, Ira drops in ("Now it's a _real_ party," he proclaims, descending with more shots), and they get into it about The Florida Project, to groans all along the table that Lovett summarily ignores.

"You know this is going to just be every Tuesday morning at the office now, right?" Ira says, when Tommy futilely tries to cut in with sports crosstalk. "Especially once Louis gets in on it."

"That's it," Tommy says, face pink, "I'm leaving Crooked Media to start my own sports podcast network with Dan," which is when Jon returns with another pitcher of beer and sends Tommy such a betrayed look that Lovett nearly chokes on his drink with laughter.

They close down the bar, and then the whole lot of them stick together to go to the next one, running across the street in clumps and giggling over nothing. Lovett's smile has been straining his cheeks for hours, and he doesn't know how to get it to stop.

Ira's holding court at the door of the next place, chatting with the doorman and counting as employees show their IDs and slide inside, one after the next. 

"Are you our," Lovett says, missing a step and nearly crashing into Ira's shoulder. "Are you our cruise director? Are you doing roll call?" 

"Just gotta get me one of those jaunty sailor caps," Ira says, smacking Lovett between the shoulder blades and pushing him inside. This place isn't huge, but it's pretty empty for a Tuesday night, with enough space to still be comfortable if all the employees of a burgeoning media company decide to drunkenly drop by.

Lovett slides onto a stool at the counter, signaling to the bartender and waiting his turn. Jon says, "He did it," appearing basically out of nowhere and throwing his arm over Lovett's shoulder in an easy, tight squeeze. 

"I mean," Lovett says, trying to tone down his smile. "The other option was an actual pedo. Low bar there."

To his credit, Jon doesn't snap. When he signals to the bartender, she comes right over, which figures. Lovett's not blind. He's known what Jon looks like for years upon years, before they ever even formally met. That doesn't make it any easier to ignore. "Vodka and club soda, please," Jon says. "And a Jack and Coke for my rumpled friend." 

"Fuck you," Lovett volleys back, resisting the urge to peer down at himself. "Who cares what I look like. He _won_." 

"He did," Jon agrees, knocking back half his drink in one gulp when the bartender slides it across the counter. He squeezes his arm more tightly around Lovett's shoulders before he lets go, and then the whole place erupts when Emily walks in through the door. "Hey," Jon says, lighting up like a Christmas tree. "You made it."

She shrieks when he scoops her in his arms and lifts her up, gives her a twirl. It's pretty impressive neither of them hits the ground, considering how much Jon's had to drink tonight already. As everyone watches, Jon sets her down and Emily tilts her face up to kiss him, eyes glittering. After a second, she spots Lovett at the bar, glass in hand, and smiles wider.

"Guys," Sarah yells, waving them back to their table in the corner, and Lovett ends up squashed between Tommy and Ira, sitting across from Jon and Emily and Tanya, so happy and tired and relieved that his toes are tingling. 

It's just—good. It feels good. _I just want you to be in the place you should be_ , Ronan told him on Sunday afternoon, and Lovett thinks, with the sort of stunning clarity and conviction that shouldn't even be possible five drinks deep, _I am_. His stomach drops, just a little, and he drowns it out by draining the rest of his drink.

Tommy's arm is warm and solid where it's pressed against Lovett's, and Jon's head is tilted back in a laugh, throat bobbing. When Lovett checks his phone, Ronan's texted him a few choice tweets about the election, and then: _You're always right to hope_. It makes something warm ignite in his chest. Lovett looks around the room at everyone gathered close, considers the strands of his life wound on the other side of the country, the interlocking, shifting tapestry of it all, and allows himself to think, for one maudlin, pleading moment, _Shouldn't this be enough?_

A beat later, someone calls for the next round of shots. Ira's taking food orders for the table. It's going to be a long night, and Lovett aims to stay happy for the rest of it. He puts down his phone, grinning at the table at large, and leans in to ask for another drink.

;;

They spend the rest of the week riding such a victory high that it's almost a surprise when Emily texts him at ten past three on Friday morning.

 _I know you're up_ , the message reads. _You left the curtains open, and I can see right into your living room from the street._

 _Stalker_ , he responds immediately, but he gets up off the couch anyway. "Emily Favreau," he says when he opens the front door. She pats the step beside her instead of following him inside. "It's cold. What are you doing?"

"You're from Long Island, you can handle it," she says, not unkindly. "Sit down." He drags his feet, but he does sink next to her after a second of waffling. 

"You drove all the way here?" he asks, eyeing her car at the curb. Or maybe it's Jon's. She's tapping something on the thigh of her yoga pants, but he didn't think to grab his glasses, so he can't tell whose keys she has.

"Leo and I haven't been sleeping well," she says with a shrug, and he thinks about Ronan saying, _I think I said something to Emily_ , remembers the careful expression on her face on Sunday afternoon, and feels guilt lance through his stomach. "I thought I'd take him for a spin."

Leo is snoozing at her feet, his little golden body covering her toes. "That dog is asleep," he says, light. Just like Pundit's dead to the world in Lovett's room. "Did you drag your dog out of the house in the middle of the night just to come bug me?"

"Calling in my raincheck," she says. Lovett's hands twist in his lap. He can't say that he wasn't expecting it, that he hasn't been expecting it, on some level, since he cancelled their dinner plans on Monday.

She's not looking at him at first, but she does turn after a few seconds, so he tries smiling, even though it feels strange on his mouth. The way they're seated leaves her in shadow, and he can't imagine that she planned it this way, but she's certainly capable of that level of intrigue.

"I'm going to ask you something," she says. "You don't have to answer, but if you do, please don't lie to me."

"Emily!" he says, hand pressed to his throat like he's a shocked Victorian heroine. "I wouldn't."

"Lovett," she says. "Promise."

"Promise. I promise," he says. His voice cracks, and he swallows convulsively, watching her face as surreptitiously as he can manage.

Emily closes her eyes, tipping her head against the wooden railing that runs down the right side of the short staircase. With the minimal light, oversized hoodie and workout pants, she looks about fifteen. The fact that he can see her wedding ring glinting is the only thing that really sets her age apart.

"Sometimes Jon does this thing," she says, catching his gaze. "He gets so upset about things online, or in the news, or at the office, but he doesn't want to rock the boat or waste our time together, so he won't say anything. Sometimes it'll fester and sometimes it won't, but during the times he lets it sit, it gets bigger and bigger, and it doesn't matter what I say, it could be anything that might get him going, and then he's off to the races, having an argument that I can't be a part of, because I don't live inside his head."

She squints, inspecting him, bright and curious. Lovett shivers, wishing they were inside and he could distract himself with his phone or waking Pundit or by hiding his face in a pillow and screaming for all eternity.

"Do you know what I mean?" Emily asks softly.

Lovett shrugs, shoulders scrunched, and says, "Honestly, you might have to spell it out for me."

"Do you want to fuck my husband?" 

It's not like he wasn't expecting the question, not since Ronan's halting confession on Monday, but it still shocks him to hear the words out loud. He wants to laugh, to point out that they could be sitting in a Taylor Swift song, if not a scene right out of a teen drama on the Freeform channel. He's too paralyzed to do anything much but stare at her in stunned silence.

"Em," he says eventually. All of his instincts are screaming at him to lie. "I _haven't_ fucked your husband, if that's what you're worried about. I haven't even made a pass. Or. More of a pass than I do during the ads, sometimes."

She huffs, fingers sliding up to pull at her ponytail. "I had a couple drinks on Saturday night, too, you know," she says, after a long beat. "Everyone was pretty wasted. I couldn't be sure if I'd just hallucinated everything Ronan said to me—and it wasn't even anything, really, just some throwaway line about straight people that I could've brushed off—but then you came over after he left, and you looked so _sad_. Why did you cancel on Monday?"

"Sorry," Lovett says in lieu of answering the question, trying to keep his voice level. "I'll be sure to tell him it's not all his fault. He'll be relieved about that."

Emily shakes her head. "It's not anybody's fault," she says, which would be hard to believe even if Lovett didn't feel like he was tailspinning on thin ice. She stops to sigh, and then glances sideways at him again, quick and careful, like she's trying to puzzle him out. 

It's a strange feeling after being friends with her for so long, the idea that he's being inspected underneath a microscope. Strange, to feel guilty and defensive and prickly and tense, when he's so used to feeling completely at home around Emily. He squirms a little. She notices.

"Ronan kept talking about you, saying he wanted you to get everything you ever wanted. Everything you deserve." She smiles, small but real. "He really loves you."

Lovett looks down at his lap. "I know," he says, too raspy. "I love him, too." A pause, and then: "You know being long-distance sucks. Most of the time it's fine—it's _fine_ , but when it's bad, it's the worst it's ever been. He. He sleeps with his friends sometimes, you—you _know_ that, and I'll—I make do." He can't help the break in his voice this time, and he's not sure what feels better: saying the words out loud, or the squeeze when she drops her hand to his arm. "It's, ah, it doesn't really feel kosher to want to sleep with your straight friends."

Out on the street, the breeze picks up, blows right through them, and Emily shivers, teeth chattering. "Okay," she whispers. She doesn't let go of his arm. "Could I have a glass of water?"

"Do you want to come inside?" he asks. It feels oddly formal for someone who's had access to a spare set of his house keys for the better part of three years.

That, more than anything, makes his teeth grind. He's not sure what he'll do if this thing he wants is what drives a wedge between all of them. The concept of working from Ronan's uncomfortably fancy couch and the chance to be anonymous in New York seem like less a joke and more of a possibility until Emily picks Leo up, says, "Yeah, I'd like that," and follows him inside the house.

They don't say much as he fills up her mug with lots of ice and water from the filter. When he passes it over, she holds it in both hands as she takes a sip, like it's a warm cup of tea she wants to savor.

"I think," she tries, eventually. "Not having fully discussed it with Jon beforehand—"

"Well, thank fuck for that," Lovett says, rolling his eyes. Emily blinks at him, eyes wide behind her glasses, and then she does the most amazing thing. She laughs.

"You're right," she says. "I'm sorry, you're absolutely right." She drops her hand to his arm again. "I do think—just try and cut him some slack, okay?"

It's Lovett's turn to blink at her. "Who? Which of them? Ronan, or—"

Her phone cuts off whatever she would have said, rattling insistently where she'd set it on the marble countertop of the island.

"Shit, it's Jon," she says, sounding surprised as she answers. "Hey, baby."

Lovett busies himself cleaning up the kitchen mess that's probably been building for the last few weeks. He doesn't bother listening to Emily's side of the conversation, even though she hasn't modulated her tone.

"He's on his way over," she says when she hangs up. "Like half a minute away." Her face is doing something complicated. He can't decipher it. "For what it's worth, Lovett, I do think he'd—I'm not going to put words in his mouth, but I think he'd be… amenable."

They're both blushing. Lovett can't look directly at her, but he also can't look away. 

"Are you fucking with me?" he manages eventually, ears ringing, and then of course there's a knock on the door. That's Jon all over, not wanting to ring the bell in the middle of the night, just in case.

Emily stares him down, shaking her head. She's smiling again; she looks more settled, but tired, the hour catching up with her. "You know I'm not. I wouldn't do that. I'll let him tell you."

 _Let him tell me what_ , he wants to demand, but it's too late. Jon's already here. Emily reaches forward, but she doesn't touch him again, and then she's gathering up the dog and her keys and heading for the entrance. Lovett follows her, so he can lock up after they go.

"Hey, babe," she says, leaning up and kissing Jon on the mouth. 

Lovett has seen them kiss a hundred times since they first started dating. Watching them argue in Sherrod's office was like watching foreplay. He and Tommy used to joke about it. 

"Lovett?" Jon is saying something, looking directly at him.

"What?" he snaps. "It's late. I'm tired. What?"

"I'm going to go walk Em back out to her car," he says, and hesitates.

"And then what?" Lovett asks. He can feel himself flushing all over again, silently curses the bright track lighting in the kitchen.

"And then I'm coming back," Jon says decisively. "I think we have some stuff to talk about."

Lovett nods, even though Jon didn't actually ask for his permission. The click of the door is loud in the silent entry way. He flips the lock, then goes back to the kitchen and tries to keep cleaning. He can't focus his eyes, even after he locates a pair of glasses and puts them on. He's been slowly working his way through _Ready Player One_ because Elijah recommended it, but when he picks up the copy he has on the counter, the words are just squiggles on the page.

The clock above the oven says it's 3:45am. Even by his standards, he should be sleeping, or at least attempting it, but just the idea of lying down makes him nauseous. His phone buzzes with an alert in his pocket, and for one single, glorious second, before Lovett swipes the automated banking text away, he's certain that it's Jon. He's come to his senses, he's not going to come back inside. Maybe Lovett won't get exactly what he wants, but wanting things and not getting them builds character, or so he's heard.

He can't stop hearing Emily's voice in his head— _I do think he'd be amenable._ Amenable. He can't quite wrap his head around it, and he's dialing Ronan before he can stop himself.

"Hi," Ronan says, answering on the second ring. "Kind of early for you to be awake, huh?"

Lovett shrugs, even though Ronan can't see him. "I've been having a rough time sleeping. You know."

"You just tweeted something scathing at Jeanine Pirro, so I knew you weren't sleeping. I did wonder."

There's a joke to be made here, he's pretty sure. He could make it, but instead, he takes a breath and then says, "Emily dropped by. Tonight. Just now." _For what it's worth, I think he'd be amenable._

Ronan makes a strangled noise. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," Lovett says. "She, um. Jon came by too. She said, uh. You must have been pretty convincing the other night, because she basically said—she said…" His voice is cracking, but he pushes through. "Jon knows. I don't even know, but Jon knows."

"Okay," Ronan says. "What are you going to do about it?"

"I have no idea," Lovett says, feeling the unstoppable laughter caught in his chest. "He just walked her back to her car. He said he was going to come back in, but—but why would he?"

Ronan makes a derisive noise. "Lovett, come on," he says. "Of course he will." He sounds so sure. "Are you guys going to… are you going to let him fuck you?"

Lovett laughs, and this time it's tinged with an edge of hysteria. He can't even wrap those words around his brain, let alone put them into action. "I think it's going to be more like, 'Emily said you had a thing for me, I guess I could be up for a threesome if you don't mind having tits involved.'"

"That probably wouldn't work," Ronan agrees. "You weren't that into tits the last time I checked in about it."

"No," Lovett says after a while, when Ronan makes a small questioning noise. "It was fine with you and Shannon, but you know it's not my thing. I've tried! You know I've tried. It's just not… it's just not what I want."

"It's okay," Ronan says quickly. "You have my permission, if you want it. Sex is messy. It's complicated. If you have the opportunity to get the things you want, you should take it."

"I want you," Lovett says, aware of how he's whining. "I need you."

He lets his forehead press on the cool marble, resisting the urge to bang it against the counter, because he's not the star of a melodramatic teen drama. He's not even the best friend in a melodramatic teen drama.

There's another knock against the front door. Lovett doesn't move, imagining a version of the future where he doesn't blow up his whole life at four in the morning for a quick dicking and a few hours of vague discomfort.

"Jon's here," he says quietly into his phone. "I should probably go deal with this mess."

To his credit, Ronan doesn't apologize again. He says, "I love you," and he hangs up, and that's it. 

If he wants this, the ball is in Lovett's court. If he doesn't, that's in his court, too. He's never spent a lot of time watching basketball, but he's fairly certain there are two courts. Maybe that's tennis. Maybe he really should invest more time in sports.

Jon knocks at the front door again, and then Lovett's phone lights up with a text. 

_You up?_ it says, and it's so typical that it makes him laugh out loud.

Predictably, Jon is standing a few feet from the door, hands balled in the pockets of his canvas jacket. 

"Hi," he says, breaking the silence. He's always way braver than Lovett ever gives him credit for.

"Hey," Lovett says. "Come on in. You'll freeze."

The house is quiet when they push inside. Not for the first time, Lovett wishes Pundit were still up. At least then he'd have something to hold onto.

Jon declines an offer for a glass of water, possibly for the first time in his life, but when Lovett says, "I have beer, I have Diet Coke, somebody gave me whiskey because they thought I was Tommy or something, I guess—" he accepts that.

Because he's never been one to avoid bad decisions, Lovett pours himself two fingers of it as well. He sits opposite Jon on the loveseat he bought because Mia said it tied the room together when they were furnishing the house, and tries to settle in.

Mostly, it's uncomfortable. He never sits on this loveseat, not when the couch is both so close and also has a much better view of the television. It's either the loveseat or the floor, though, and loveseat wins, because it might suck, but the floor is too close to Jon and his sprawling limbs.

They stare at their glasses for a while. Lovett sneaks glances toward the couch, hoping that maybe Jon is sneaking one at him too, but he seems pretty intent on examining the amber liquid in his glass, like he's three seconds away from asking about the vintage.

"I don't know anything about whiskey," Lovett blurts out, because one of them has to say something, and it might as well be him.

"What's that?" Jon asks, but he sounds as stupid as Lovett had, so at least they're both fucked.

"Whiskey," Lovett repeats, committing to the bit. "You looked like you were a minute away from asking me whether it was smoked or barrel-aged, and I just don't know the answer to that, Jon. I'm pretty impressed that I even know what barrel-aging is, honestly. At 4 o'clock in the morning, at least. That's more of an '11:30am Wikipedia binge so you can pretend you know things during a lunch meeting with potential investors' nugget of information." 

"Right," Jon says, nodding. He stops abruptly. Lovett's still not looking at him, but he catches the movement out of the corner of his eye.

It feels, conservatively, like the facehugger from Alien is twelve seconds from erupting out of his body. Lovett glances down at his watch to mark the passage of time.

"Lovett, we need to talk," Jon says quietly. 

"Isn't that what we're doing?"

"Lovett," Jon repeats, and that's it, Lovett can feel it coming, something squeezing so tightly in his chest that his breaths come out faster and tighter, until it feels like he's barely breathing at all. Jon's going to let him down easy, or say something terrible, and Lovett will have no one to blame for ruining his own damn life but himself.

Without his noticing, Jon has scooted closer. His palm settles on Lovett's thigh like they casually touch each other all the time. "What are you doing?" Lovett asks, turning his head and trying not to wince, because Jon is right there. It's overwhelming.

"What's going on with you and Ronan?" Jon asks, instead of explaining away their sudden closeness. "Did something—are you guys on a break?"

Lovett's first instinct is to deny it. They aren't _on a break_. This is not some modern-day homoerotic version of FRIENDS. They're fine. They're _fine_.

Except if that were entirely true, Lovett probably wouldn't be having this conversation.

"We don't, ah," he mumbles, knuckling at his eye with his free hand. "We're non-monogamous right now, but we're still together."

He's known Jon a long time—knew him when he was sowing his wild oats in DC, knew him after he met Emily and settled down, knew when Emily let slip, obliquely, that a couples vacation in Maine with Tommy and Hanna had turned into something more titillating—but he's still not expecting the quick nod, or the way Jon says, "Okay, so what does that mean?"

"What do you mean, what does it mean?" Lovett asks. He sneaks another glance at Jon, and this time, he gets caught at it.

"Who's on first," Jon says, not cracking a smile. "You're non-monogamous, but still together, but what does that mean? Are you promiscuous? Is he? Are there rules? Contracts? No kissing on the mouth?"

"You want to kiss me on the mouth?" 

Lovett is looking at Jon's face, so he catches the blush, a pretty, lurid pink, stretching across his forehead and cheeks, moving steadily down his throat. Holy shit.

"Lovett," Jon tries, but this information is too much, too good, too everything. 

"Wait," Lovett says. "Backup. You want to kiss me on the mouth? You? Mr. I-Married-A-Co-Ed?"

"Lovett!"

"What! I'm just saying, no one loves Emily more than me. Maybe you, but I'd say we're tied, and even you have to admit you were cradle robbing there, my friend."

"Ronan isn't even thirty yet," Jon says, wry.

"Point," Lovett agrees. "So we're both cradle robbers, it looks like."

"Sure, I guess," Jon says, but he's smiling, soft and fond, and it feels like for the first time all night, Lovett can breathe properly.

He sits back, trying to get comfortable on the damn loveseat, when he remembers that Jon's hand is on his thigh.

"Is that a gun in your pocket," Lovett tries, "or are you just happy to see me?"

"I'm always happy to see you."

What he is is always painfully sincere. Lovett would mock him for it, but instead he leans over to set his tumbler on the floor, and when he sits up again, Jon moves the hand that wasn't on his thigh up to his face, fingers curled against his cheek. Now they're even closer than they had been, practically sharing the same breath.

"If I'm on _Candid Camera_ don't tell me yet, okay?" Lovett says, watching as Jon flicks his tongue out to wet his lips, and then leans in to press their mouths together.

Jon's lips are soft. His hands are big, but his fingers are delicate, and Lovett isn't expecting it when the hand on his thigh squeezes.

"What do you want?" Jon asks, the words bumping right against his lips.

There are a million things Lovett wants. Hundreds of things he could list without even stopping to think about them.

"Didn't Emily tell you?" he says, pulling back just to watch Jon flinch. She's not here, but it'll be easier to keep from falling into this so easily if he imagines her in the room with them.

Jon doesn't flinch. Jon doesn't even blink, dark eyes focused on Lovett's face. "She said that you wanted to… that it was possible you were interested in exploring a different aspect of our relationship."

"Shut up," Lovett says, all instinct, and he's rewarded with the way Jon laughs, full-bodied and sinuous. 

"She did," Jon says, relaxing. "We've talked about it before, Lovett."

"You have not," Lovett says, embarrassed despite himself. He'd thought he was at rock bottom before. Boy, had he been wrong.

"I'm sure you and Ronan do this too. You make a list, say. People you could sleep with, if the inevitable happened."

"The inevitable," Lovett parrots, feeling weirdly disconnected from his body, from the scene, from the way Jon always talks with his hands when he gets worked up, when he's telling a story, when he's about to get to something good.

"Yeah," Jon agrees. "Getting stuck in an elevator, or running into each other at a restaurant, or, like, a desert island fuck."

"You would have a heart attack if we ever crash landed on a desert island together," Lovett says. 

He squeezes his eyes shut briefly, just for a second, just to take a breath. Jon is still looking at him when he opens them. Jon hasn't moved, slumped back against the pillows on the couch. His free hand is fiddling with the tassel on the throw.

"Probably," Jon says, easy as ever. "Still, I picked you."

"Picked me for what," Lovett says, even though he knows. When Jon meets his eyes again, Lovett knows he knows, too. "Why," he blurts out, too astounded to help himself. "I don't think you know how to play this game properly. This isn't a—a gym class kickball tournament, okay? You could pick anybody. You could have Angelina Jolie. George Clooney." He swallows, blinking fast. "You could have _Tommy_." For all he knows, Jon already has, but Lovett has studiously avoided sticking his nose in that direction. "What are you even talking about?"

"Lovett," Jon says, the way he says it every time Lovett starts spiraling like this. He lets out a low laugh, full and raspy, and he's so close. He's been so close, but now he's impossibly _closer_ , his hand on Lovett's face again. They kiss, a dumb little nothing of a press that sends his mind reeling. "Focus. I'm here with you right now. The only person I'm thinking about is you."

"I don't believe you," Lovett gasps, not caring about how stupid he must look climbing over the arm of the loveseat to crawl onto Jon's lap. "But fuck, fine. Who cares? We can skip the pleasantries, okay? You don't have to woo me with pretty words. Let's just get to the stuff."

"Get to the what," Jon says. His eyes are wide behind his thick, ridiculous lashes. Lovett wants to bite his mouth. Wants to mess him up. Wants so many things he doesn't have the answer to. He feels reckless with it, like he's staring straight at the sun after so long nestled comfortably in the dark.

He's been dragged out into the light, now. He's not sure how much he likes it. "Don't play dumb," Lovett mumbles. "I know you know what swinging is."

"I've only." Jon stops to take a breath, pinching at the skin over his nose. "The only people Emily and I have ever done this kind of thing with are Tommy and Hanna, and only in certain permutations, and that's—you don't want to hear about that."

"Your wife sent you back here to fuck around, but I don't want to know if you have any other experience? Okay, that makes a lot of sense."

"She sent me back here to what?" Jon says.

It's so hard to look straight at Jon right now, which bodes well for the rest of their professional and personal lives. 

"She sent you over here to—to hook up, but you can't even talk about the other people you've done it with? Lame."

Instead of getting offended, Jon laughs and says, "Do you want to talk about it? It's honestly not—fuck. You've never wanted to hear about it before." From anybody else's mouth, it would sound snarky, but he doesn't. His voice is soft, fingers flexing around Lovett's hips. "It's not what you're imagining. Not that risqué."

"In my experience," Lovett says, dryly, "boobs never are."

Jon laughs. Of course he laughs. He always laughs, and Lovett watches him, letting himself imagine what that would be like, how it would feel if all of that coiled attention, all of that potential, was solely focused on him.

Eventually, Jon clears his throat and says, "With Tommy and them—it's not like that, so you have to tell me, Lovett."

"Emily didn't say—did she not tell you what we're blowing up this friendship for a, uh," Lovett takes a second, then pushes the rest of the words past his teeth on a messy exhale. "I want to get laid. That's what this is. A booty call."

"I think you're wrong," Jon says.

"No," Lovett argues, happy to finally have something to push back against. "I think I know what I want, Jon. What the hell."

"That's not what I meant."

Jon reels him in, a hand reaching up to brush against his neck, thin fingers rubbing across the line of his jaw. Lovett sighs, tries to turn his face into the touch so he won't have to look, but Jon keeps guiding his chin back toward him. Studying his face. It's dark in the living room, so Lovett isn't sure what Jon's looking for, or if he's found it.

"I think you're wrong that anything could ruin us," Jon says. "We talk about it, we work it through, and we move forward. Nothing gets blown up. Nothing gets lost."

"Jon," Lovett whines, tipping forward to press their foreheads together. "Shut _up_."

They kiss again then, for so long that Lovett's mouth starts to feel bruised. For so long that even with his eyes closed, he can sense the rising sun starting to shift into view through the picture window that leads out to the yard.

"Fuck," he gasps, pulling away because he's hard, and because Jon is breathing heavily also, little bursts of air that make Lovett shiver when they hit his skin. "Fuck, this is not how I was expecting this to go."

"Oh yeah?" Jon asks. He sounds _winded_. "How were you expecting it to go?"

Not like this. Not soft kisses and big hands. Not necking on the couch like teenagers. No way would Lovett have been making out with anyone in high school, anyway. The strain in his thighs wouldn't have been this pronounced, either. Actually, that's funny, so he repeats it out loud. 

"This is all very 'after school special', don't you think? When two boys really like each other, they kiss on couches with their clothes on instead of using glory holes in truck stop bathrooms." 

Jon's hands tighten on his hips, and Lovett almost moves. He knows what's coming, wants to slide off Jon's lap and smush his face against the cushions.

"Is that, uh," Jon tries, and they're so close that Lovett can feel it when he swallows. "Have you done that?"

"No," Lovett says, squirming. The only way he'll get this out is if he gets it out fast. "Thought about it, sure. I've got—I've thought about a lot of things. I have a very vivid imagination, Jon. A very active inner life."

"I don't doubt it," Jon says, fond. He hasn't pulled away in revulsion, which was—Lovett is pretty good at lying to himself when he needs to, and when he ever let himself think about this, potential revulsion was definitely a top concern. "So—what do you want, then? Am I allowed to ask that?"

"You're allowed to ask whatever you want," Lovett says, trying not to sound too mulish. "I can't guarantee that I'll answer, but you can ask."

"I just wanna know what you want, Lovett." Sometimes Jon's voice gets soft and low, purposely enticing. When he does it now, the hair on Lovett's arms stands on edge. "Just this? A hand on your dick? Do you want me to fuck you?" He pauses for a moment when Lovett squirms again, and then, even lower: "Do you want to fuck me?"

"Shut up," Lovett says, eyes snapping up to meet Jon's, wide and luminous. Lovett's grateful for the millionth time that the lights are off. "Stop messing around."

"I'm not," Jon argues. "Tell me how it would work."

Lovett leans in again, breathing heavy, and they kiss. It's messy. Slow. Jon's mouth on his neck, his cheeks, his chin.

"I know what you're trying to do," Jon murmurs against his skin. "You can't avoid the question forever."

"Watch me," Lovett replies, automatic, and then shakes his head. Fuck. He should at least make an effort. "Ronan and I… it's complicated. We've been exploring our options with non-monogamy. That's the simplest way of putting it. He's been really enjoying himself, so that's good."

"What about you?" Jon asks. His hand hovers at the back of Lovett's neck, fingers lightly pressed to his hairline.

"What about me?" Lovett asks. It's a question that requires eye-contact. He might be a coward, but this is important.

"Has it been good for you?"

Lovett could lie. What he says instead is, "No, not really. I haven't found a way to do it where I'm not afraid of getting attached to the person that comes with the, uh. I'm not having some 'Seven Year Itch' mid-life crisis, you see that, right? I'm not looking for someone new. I want—he's what I want. He wanted me to expand my boundaries, and so I'm trying, but I am not a casual person—"

"Your clothes suggest otherwise, buddy," Jon says, and that's funny, but Lovett can't shake himself out enough to laugh. Jon's hand drops from Lovett's neck to the small of his back, fingers lightly kneading. His shirt has gotten rucked up, and the first touch of their skin brushing together makes Lovett flinch.

"I just have a hard time separating sex from the person, which I think is why, uh. Maybe it's less dangerous or something with you. There's already a relationship here. Right?"

"Right." Jon brushes his thumb across the lowest knob in Lovett's spine, and it sends something hot and electric shooting up it. "So that's what you want, on nights when Ronan can't be around? Me, in bed, touching you. Telling you how, um—" He pauses, and Lovett can feel him swallowing, that's how tightly they're pressed together. When he speaks again, he sounds raw. "Telling you how perfect you are?"

Lovett feels too heavy, suddenly, overwhelmed by the comfort of Jon's arms, how easy it was to get lulled into a sense of security and forget about the impending sunrise, the rest of the world outside this little bubble they've constructed for themselves. Leave it to Jon to always up the ante, make Lovett want too much. Lovett needs a shower, and a nap, and at least twelve cans of Diet Coke. He needs to move.

"Let me go," he says, struggling when Jon's arms don't immediately fall away from his waist. "This was obviously a bad idea. Let's get really drunk after the taping tonight and forget this ever happened."

"Lovett, I don't want to do that," Jon says, even though he does let his hands drop. Lovett could get up and move any second now. He takes a breath and rolls himself to the side, off of Jon's lap, but not out of his orbit entirely.

"Listen," he says, "I don't know what you and Emily talked about out there—"

"Nothing," Jon interjects. His hands twitch idly by his sides, like he wants to reach out and touch again. He doesn't.

"What do you mean, 'nothing'?" Lovett asks. "What does that even mean? She just sent you back in here with no rhyme or reason or plan, said, 'hey honey, go and mess around with Lovett! It's totally fine by me'? Is that how it worked with—with Tommy and Hanna?" He's cringing even as he says it. "I don't believe it."

"Thought about that a lot, have you?" Jon says, and then seems to realize, when Lovett flinches involuntarily, that that isn't the right way to go. He rubs at the bridge of his nose, eyes darting down and to the left. "She trusts you, you know? She trusts us."

 _Maybe she shouldn't_ , Lovett thinks, sharp and jagged, and watches Jon's throat work as he swallows, the long, thin line of him swaying in the darkness as he gets to his feet. Silhouetted in the faint strains of dawn light, his face is almost entirely in shadow, except for—except—

"I've wanted you for a long time," Jon says, like it's just that easy, adjusting himself in his pants as he stands and gathers their empty glasses together. "I don't really know what else I can say to convince you of that." 

He shrugs, forcing out a laugh, but it's a deceptive casualness, and Jon Favreau is a terrible liar. Lovett sits up straighter on the couch, but it's difficult, because the world feels so distinctly tipped on its axis.

"Jon," Lovett says. He stands, too, takes two unsteady steps closer. DISASTER, his brain screams. YOU ARE HEADED FOR AN ENORMOUS DISASTER. He ignores it, reaching out to touch Jon's face this time. 

"Jon," Jon returns, voice dropped low again. "I want to do this for you. With you. Okay?"

He's so goddamn earnest it makes Lovett want to cry sometimes. "Why are you like this?" Lovett whines, dropping his head to Jon's shoulder and breathing him in.

"Not everybody is gonna let you down, hon," Jon says.

Lovett's skin prickles. "Really? Pet names already and this—and this _arrangement_ is only five minutes old. I hate it."

One of Jon's hands is still draped loosely along Lovett's neck, and he doesn't let go, not even when Lovett tries to pull away. "If you say so. I like them, though. I like, uh. Showing affection."

Jon does. Lovett knows. He's seen it countless times over the years, the easy chorus of endearments raining down from overhead whenever he's around Jon and Emily, the way Jon's face goes soft when she presses her face into his neck and calls him _baby_. 

But this isn't—this isn't that. It can't be that. He could argue; he can feel himself getting worked up. The feeling of righteous indignation curls in his belly, tight and molten hot, but instead, he rips his head up and kisses Jon again instead, curling his hands over Jon's cheeks.

It feels nice. They fit together well. Fuck.

;;

Lovett must fall asleep on the couch, because he wakes _up_ on the couch, an aching crick in his neck, phone clutched against his chest tightly. He has five new texts, four of which are from Jon. Lovett can't even stand to look at his notifications, so he swipes them away, clearing the screen so that it's only the red number glaring at him from the messenger app. That's fine. He's dealt with a high count before.

He showers, he makes himself a smoothie, he chases it with a can of Diet Coke. He thinks about going to the gym, but sometimes Jon takes the early cycling class, and Lovett isn't sure he wants to deal with him so soon. Not just yet. 

Ronan answers when he Skypes, even though it's the middle of his morning. He looks tired, but he's smiling, so that's something. 

"Morning, Jonathan," he says. From the context clues, Lovett can tell he's in the office he uses at the New Yorker, so they probably don't have a lot of time. "Rough night? You're up early."

"I am up by 7:20 every day!"

Ronan does him the service of smiling, but it doesn't quite make the shadows drop off his face. "Okay, early riser. What's up? How many Diet Cokes have you had so far today?"

"Just the one," Lovett says, walking Ronan through the kitchen with the camera facing outward as if he's never seen the place before. It's not possible that he still has stubble burn, but his mouth feels kiss bruised, his body still clinging to the remains of what he and Jon did. "So, uh."

"Uh?" Ronan deadpans, and Lovett watches the way he yawns and his jaw cracks. 

"Favreau and I kissed last night. This morning, I guess. It was the middle of the night, but I did fall asleep after, so. I don't know. Anyway, that happened."

The video screen doesn't provide enough detail for Lovett to accurately track everything that happens on Ronan's face. It's not only that the silence stretches out between them; it's that, coupled with the distance. Lovett can feel every inch and mile of it.

"Yeah?" Ronan says eventually. He's wearing a smile, but Lovett has seen him smile on screen hundreds of times, and this one is a match. Camera ready. "How'd that go? Did you ambush him? Did he ambush you? Was it _dreamy_?"

He's obviously joking about the last part, fluttering his lashes, but Lovett can feel himself blushing anyway, glad all over again that he's still got his camera set to forward-facing and Ronan doesn't have to see the color spread across his face.

"It was fine," he says, while his brain screams _understatement_. "It was, you know. We talked a little bit. We kissed, uh, a lot, and then he went home. To his wife, and his dog."

"And?" Ronan prompts him.

Lovett watches him lean forward, and hears the tiny snicking noise his door makes as it closes. He presses the button to flip the camera.

"It was… fine," he repeats, and then because Ronan is clearly expecting more, he extrapolates. "Fine, fuck you, it was dreamy."

Ronan laughs, and that makes something small whoosh and unclench in Lovett's stomach, relief coursing through his veins.

"He is that. So, was it, uh." Ronan coughs, eyes catching on something off screen. "Was it just kissing? Did you come up with any action items?"

Rushed whispers and kisses against the closed front door don't count as action items. Jon had kept touching his face, leaning in one more time, and then once more, just one last kiss, please. Lovett closes his eyes briefly, but that doesn't really help him put it aside.

"Not really," Lovett says, willing himself not to blush. "I guess we'll talk about it sometime? He's supposed to be picking me up in… fuck. Two minutes ago, actually. I should go."

"Go, go," Ronan says. "Have a good day at work."

Lovett meets his eyes through the screen and says, "I love you."

Ronan repeats the words, finally grinning for real. "Call me later, yeah? I want to see what you're packing for Utah."

"Clothes," Lovett says, laughing. "Lots of sweatpants. Maybe a nice pair of jeans, if Emily follows through on her threat of making us go someplace fancy for dinner one night. She's been Yelping."

"I still want to see," Ronan insists, oddly serious. For the millionth time, Lovett wishes they were having this conversation face-to-face. Face-to-non-digitized-face.

"Okay, you'll see," he promises. "Bye."

"Bye," Ronan says.

He toggles to his messenger app and sees that more more texts have come in. Fuck.

 **Jon** _4:59am_  
I had a really great time.

 **Jon** _4:59am_  
Fuck, was that a stupid thing to say?

 **Jon** _5:01am_  
Thanks for letting me, Lovett.

 **Jon** _5:30am_  
Night.

Lovett's stomach knots as he reads through them. He's been biting down on his lip hard enough that it hurts.

 **Jon** _8:15am_  
Omw. Do you want a coffee

 **Jon** _8:27am_  
Okay, on my way for real. See you in ten.

 **Jon** _8:40am_  
Outside.

 **Jon** _8:42am_  
Lovett?

He hears a knock on the front door before he can text back, stuffing the phone in his back pocket and whistling for Pundit. She's more prepared than he is. Thank god he'd just dropped her stuff by the door when he'd gotten in last night.

Another soft knock, and then Lovett's dragging open the door to Jon's face, sleep-deprived but as handsome as always. He's got his RayBans pushed up onto the crown of his head and a pillow crease on his cheek.

"Lovett," he says. "Hey."

"Hey, uh. Hi. Sorry, I overslept, and then I was Skyping with Ronan, so I missed your texts. Sorry."

Jon grins at him, leaning down to scratch Pundit under the chin before he scoops her up off the ground and into his arms.

"Lovett?" Jon says. It sounds like he's smiling, but Lovett has to lock his front door, so he's not looking. He's capable of looking, but he has to find his keys first. "You coming?"

"Yeah," Lovett says. "Yes. Just have to dig out my keys."

He can feel Jon behind him. He's not hovering exactly, whispering something to Pundit under his breath. Lovett stills, trying to make out the words, but Jon's speaking too softly to be heard.

"Honestly, that's enough," he says. He doesn't spin around fast, or try to make a scene, but the sight of Jon cuddling his dog and whispering sweet nothings in her ear is just too much. "What are you _doing_?"

Jon blinks at him. There's color high on his cheeks, but he always tans easily, so that could be anything. 

"What am I doing?" Jon asks. "I'm standing here." He shrugs, but it looks kind of funny with the armful of dog that he has. 

"You're cooing at my dog," Lovett snaps as he slides into the passenger side of the car. He's holding his house keys so tightly they ache against his palm.

Jon sets Pundit in the backseat next to a strapped in, sleeping Leo, and says, "Would you like me to coo at you instead?"

It's a smooth line, or at least it would be if Jon's voice didn't crack right in the middle of it. Lovett sets his backpack and Pundit's tote in the footwell and wipes his hands on his thighs. He's going to have to look at Jon eventually, and he will. 

"Are we telling people," Lovett says, too abrupt, instead of any of a million other things he can think of. "About… you know."

He turns his head, focusing on the new across the street neighbors backing out of their driveway. One of the husbands had come by and introduced himself when they'd moved in. He's a Scrum Master, whatever the hell that is.

"Are we," Jon says calmly. He's a careful driver, always checking his mirrors and turn signals. Lovett is used to being able to turn his brain off whenever they're in the car together, because Jon is somebody he can implicitly trust, even if he is from Massachusetts. "Do you mean, like. The world? Like, are we making an announcement on Twitter, because I, uh. If that's what you want, Lovett, I bet Emily would—"

It is truly so tempting to let him keep going, because watching him tie himself into knots is hilarious, but it's unkind, and at some point, Lovett should try being better about that sort of thing.

"I meant, like, Tommy," Lovett says. "How does it usually work with you guys?"

Jon scrubs his hand over his face and laughs. When he speaks again, he says, "You're vastly overthinking the ways it's happened before, Jon. It isn't really an exact science."

"It still did happen," Lovett argues, punchier than he means to be. "I'm asking you a question. How does it go? Does Tommy lean over you suggestively and say, 'Hey, babe, let's'—"

Without looking at him, Jon uses his free hand to slide his palm over Lovett's mouth. It's not entirely unpleasant, but also _rude_. Lovett licks him. He can't help himself.

"I think you think that's grosser than it actually was," Jon says, and the grin he throws at Lovett makes him smile back helplessly. "So. Tommy. Do we want to talk to him about it? Is that what you're asking me?"

That _we_ makes something molten and hot strike someplace deep inside Lovett. He doesn't want to investigate it, lest his whole body burst into flames.

At the light, Jon looks over at him briefly. "I mean," he continues. "We don't have to, but he's our best friend and business partner. Seems like something he might appreciate a heads up about."

"Right," Lovett says, suddenly panicky, even though he'd been the one to bring it up. "I just—you and I necked on the couch like teenagers. We might not even be compatible! Seems dumb to announce it without testing out the goods. So to speak."

Jon glances at him again, long enough this time that the light turns green and someone behind him starts honking. There's a quick jerk as Jon presses down on the accelerator, and Pundit lets out a brief bark from the back seat. "Sorry," Jon says, kind of breathless. "You mean—"

"Yes," Lovett says, eyes trained forward. "You and me. Doing it."

It's impossible to look at Jon and talk about this at the same time, so Lovett doesn't, focusing instead on the tear that's forming in the corner of his shoe, the canvas old and worn right where the Stars and Stripes meet. A perfect allegory for their crumbling democracy. That's funny, so he repeats it, pleased as always when Jon laughs, neck craning back, even though he's driving.

"Lovett," he says, sobering quickly, hand hovering over Lovett's thigh. It seems like he's going to say something momentous. Lovett peeks at him, because he has to. When their eyes meet, Jon tries out a smile. "I would really like that."

;;

It would be hilarious if this were happening to anybody else. By mid-day, it feels like both their conversation in the car and the one from last night were part of a weird, PG-13 fever dream. They record ads with Tommy, they have meetings with sponsors, and then they head to the Improv for Lovett's last show of the year and the company holiday party.

Tommy and Jon join him on stage for a segment and change. Emily and Hanna are in the audience, and it feels—weird, wrong, to imagine kissing Jon. Imagine dragging him back to a secret corner to try it, to fuck him. Just thinking about it makes Lovett feel flushed and sweaty.

"Hey, man, you killed it," Tommy says after the show, dropping a heavy arm over Lovett's shoulders and startling the hell out of him in the green room. He smells good, which is distracting. "Even the parts I wasn't up there for."

Backstage is mostly a collection of tiny dressing rooms, plus an equally small green room, but Lovett always keeps his things locked up, a holdover from the potential terror of having them stolen in school.

"Oh, how kind. Thank you for such a heartfelt compliment, Tommy," Lovett says, shrugging his arm off and taking one last sweeping glance through the room. "Do you think I left anything in here? I can't find my phone charger."

"You have like, fifteen more at home, even if you did lose it somewhere," Tommy says, which is true, but no less annoying.

"That's not really the point," Lovett argues, shoving his bag at Tommy and ducking under the vanity one more time to make sure none of his possessions are hiding in the dark.

"It's just a charger, Jon," Tommy says, as infuriatingly reasonable as ever. Lovett nearly whacks his head on the overhang as he climbs back out.

"I just don't like losing my things," he grunts through his teeth, feeling his skin goose pimple as Tommy presses his free hand to the small of his back, _guiding_. God, now is _not_ the time for stupid flights of fancy. "What are you doing?" 

"Woah," Tommy says, stepping back. "Why are you so tense? Let's stop at any drug store on this street, bud. I'll get you five new phone chargers, no problem."

It's such a Tommy thing to say. Lovett can't stand him. Their hands bump together as he reaches over to grab his bag back, and Lovett flinches. He tries to hide it, but Tommy is watchful.

"We should get back out there," Lovett says, fighting to keep his voice even.

Tommy drops his hand away and nods. "You're right. Let's go. We have a rager to get to."

"Rager?" Lovett says, the corner of his mouth automatically lifting into a smirk. Tommy lets him weasel back onto the firmer ground of making fun of his definition of a wild night out, and for that, Lovett's grateful.

It's a good party, anyway: loud and sweaty and full of ridiculous cocktails, like the best ones are. They take photobooth pictures and hand out bags of merch and say too many earnest things. Or, well—Jon and Tommy say too many earnest things, and Lovett makes his rounds, works the crowd, photobombs every time he sees a camera out. His forehead feels rubbed raw beneath the brim of his hat by midnight, his face sore from smiling too much.

Emily appears over his shoulder after the millionth toast. "Hey, Lovett," she says, sliding her hand in the crook of his arm. "I think I'm going to head out."

"What? Why?" he asks, shouting a little to be heard over some twangy nonsense that Tommy is most certainly responsible for. "It's still early."

"I have a headache," she says, touching two fingers to her temple and wincing. "I'm going to split a Lyft home with Tommy and Hanna."

It takes him a moment to get it, but alcohol and exuberance can only dull the senses so much. He gets it, and even if he didn't, the way she tilts her head in Jon's direction drives the point home.

Lovett leans in closer, following her gaze. "It's odd to me that you're so ready and willing to facilitate this affair," he says into her ear, and he means it in the clever, double-entendre way, maybe. He's trying, anyway, but she doesn't let him quite get away with it.

"It's not an affair," she says. "Just return him unbroken, and we'll call it a job well done."

"Call _me_ a job well done, you mean," he says. He's not sure how he meant that part, but she doesn't flinch back the way he'd expected her to.

"We can discuss the dirty details later if you want," she says, shrugging. She does let go of him then, but she's smiling, the corners of her eyes crinkling. "Come on, Lovett. Go get your man."

They haven't been avoiding each other all night, but Lovett hasn't sought out Jon's company, either. He scans the room and makes Jon out in the crowd, standing by the stage with Corinne and Sarah, gesticulating wildly.

"Night, babe," Em says, brushing his elbow one more time, and then she's sliding her coat on, making her way through the room to where Tommy and Hanna are hovering by the door.

Tommy catches his eyes and smiles, lifting his hand in a wave goodnight, and the sight of him makes Lovett's stomach clench briefly, a low, tight, squeeze he can't think too much on.

Lovett mingles some more. He talks to Mukta about her family's holiday plans. He takes a photo with Elijah and his new selfie stick. He makes small talk with Jamie the Intern, and, inexplicably, Jamie's mom, their guest for the evening.

"I watched _1600 Penn_ , you know," she says, leaning in close to be heard over the still blaring music. "Really funny stuff."

"It was slaughtered in its prime," Lovett agrees, sees how she smiles, and how Intern Jamie looks two minutes away from wishing the ground would swallow them up. "Thanks for coming tonight. Jamie does great work."

They both beam at him, and when he turns, there's Jon. "Hi," Jon says, hands braced on Lovett's arms so they don't fully collide. "Fancy meeting you here."

"Yes, our own company Christmas party is the last place where you'd find me," Lovett mutters, irritated with himself for being so surprised, and with Jon, for still holding onto him, even in a crowded space full of their colleagues.

"I just meant," Jon starts, but he cuts himself off with a laugh. "Never mind. Hi, Lovett. I haven't really seen much of you tonight."

If he was looking for an opening, he couldn't possibly have found himself a better one. 

"I," Lovett says, and in the grand tradition of leaping without looking, adds, "Hey, you want to get out of here? Seems like you have the night free."

;;

It takes longer than Lovett expected to extract themselves; being cofounders and all, he probably should've known. Eventually, though, they manage to make their excuses ("We're much too old to stay until the bitter end, don't you think?") and retrieve their cars from valet.

The drive home is mostly uneventful. Lovett rolls the windows down and lets the breeze attempt to cool his flushing skin, tries to focus on anything that isn't Jon's Audi in the rearview mirror. If he thinks about it too hard, his brain starts coming up with a million and one different reasons not to, and—Lovett's too tired for that tonight, honestly.

Tonight, under cover of darkness, with the buzz of anticipation zipping through his veins, there's only one thing he wants.

His phone buzzes in his pocket as he's pulling onto his street, and a quick glance at the view screen tells him it's Jon. 

"If this is you telling me you're backing out, I might murder you," he says, when his Bluetooth kicks in. "I'm serious."

Jon chuckles, and says, "Nah, no. I was just wondering where to park. What's going on with the street cleaning?"

"Just park behind me in the driveway," Lovett says. "It'll be a tight squeeze, but we can make it work."

"No comment," Jon says quickly. "I could be making many, many comments, but I respect you enough to make none of them."

"Good of you," Lovett says, ending the call and feeling his cheeks heat up again. His body is too full of bubbles and butterflies—idiotic, childish idioms that he can't seem let go.

The curtains still haven't been drawn in the living room and the lights are on. As he parks, Lovett just can make out the edge of the loveseat and Pundit's furry body nestled in Spencer's lap on the couch. He gets out of the car awash in the headlights of the Audi, so bright they're almost blinding.

"Hey," Jon says, voice soft but carrying in the cool darkness. The neighbors' flood lights are bright too, but pointing in the other direction, so Lovett can only catch passing glimpses of his face. He's startled that Jon is suddenly close enough to touch. "You okay?"

"Yes," Lovett says. Jon's hand drifts up to hover next to his face, and Lovett can't stop himself from blurting, "Blinds. Plus Spencer is inside. He drew the, um, the dog-sitting short straw."

"Right," Jon says, but he doesn't drop his hand, and Lovett hasn't stopped wanting to lean into it.

"Right, so," Lovett says, taking a full step back. "We probably don't need him to see this if he looks outside." 

Jon nods at him, but doesn't say anything, following him quietly inside the house. Pundit is pleased to see them both, jumping on Jon's legs when she catches sight of him, and lolling onto her back just to get his attention, whining contently as he bends at the knees to scratch her belly. 

"Yeah, yeah, we know she's a, a slut for you, Jon," Lovett says, feeling exposed. "Everyone with eyes can see it. Wrap it up."

Spencer laughs, tugging on his jean jacket and cap. "What are you guys up to tonight? Going to another party? Aren't you tired?"

"I'm finally going to show him how to play Portal," Lovett blurts, his eyes snapping to Jon's, just as Jon has his mouth open to probably say something completely different. "It's only been like, ten years."

"Right after I teach him how to bake Snickerdoodles," Jon says, still on the floor with Pundit.

Spencer looks suitably impressed. "Lovett, do you even have pots and pans and stuff? Or, like, sifters?"

"I brought some bake-and-breaks," Jon answers smoothly. "Gonna start slow. Really ease him into it."

Their gazes catch behind Spencer's back. Lovett's entire body is suffused with a desperate, aching heat. 

"Good luck not burning the house down, I guess," Spencer says, kneeling to bump knuckles with Jon and scritching behind Pundit's ears. "Night, Pundit."

"She doesn't speak English," Lovett says, out of habit. "She can't talk back to you, either."

"I'm not going to mention how often I hear you speaking to this dog," Jon says. He looks comfortable on Lovett's floor, leaned back with all his weight on one palm. Like he belongs.

"Night, guys," Spencer says, and Lovett's sure he follows him back down the hallway to lock the door behind him. Sure he says something erudite and impressive, or at least sure that he doesn't say anything too weird because all Spencer parts with is, "See ya when you get back from all your travel, Jon."

When he's alone, Lovett slumps against the door, taking a deep breath. He toes off his shoes, removes his glasses and sets them on the decorative table he has by the door for mail, hats, eyewear, and sometimes Pundit's dog toys. A dark red foam ball that came in a set Ronan bought her a few visits ago is sitting next to Lovett's keys, and that, more than anything, makes him pause. Makes him take stock of himself, in this brief moment of clarity.

Lovett pulls his phone out of his pocket, squinting down at the screen. Opens the Messages app before he can second guess himself. 

_Hey_ , he sends Ronan, so he doesn't bail out while trying to figure out the most delicate way to phrase this. Then he remembers—Ronan, of all people, would understand that Lovett's never been delicate a day in his life. Neither of them are. When Ronan and Shannon had been playing around with the strap-on last fall, Lovett had gotten Snapchat after Snapchat of the two of them together, the size and shape of everything they tried. Ronan's blissed out face post orgasm. _Jon came home with me tonight,_ he types out slowly. _I think we're going to fuck._

Half a minute later, as Lovett sweats in the foyer, Ronan replies with a string of double exclamation point emojis. Then: _Have fun, babe_ , with a purple heart. Jesus. _Give me all the details tomorrow._

 _You'll be the first to know if Favreau runs screaming from the room at the sight of my naked form._ He's joking. Mostly joking. Sort of.

 _Nah_ , sends Ronan. _You've been working out._

"How long are you going to hide for?" Jon calls from the living room, as if on cue. "I don't mind waiting. I just want an accurate timeline."

Lovett could move, but he doesn't, sliding even further against the wood. He tucks his phone back in his pocket. "It's customary to respect a person's privacy in their own home."

Jon appears in the mouth of the doorway, backlit and so fucking good-looking that Lovett slightly loses his balance. Is this how Emily feels all the time? The mind boggles.

"You know," he says, testing his voice out. "My boyfriend is very attractive. Blond. Good skin. Great eyes. Very soulful."

He's not sure if he's imagining it or not, but it seems like Jon stutters a step before continuing. That doesn't stop him from saying, "I know. We've met."

"I'm just trying to figure out why my body is reacting this way to you," Lovett tries, voice breaking in two once Jon completes his journey. They're touching again. It is still overwhelming.

"How's that?" Jon asks. He dips in, lips on Lovett's cheek, beneath his eyes, trails down to press small kisses against his neck and near the hem of his t-shirt.

"Hot," he whispers. Can't get his voice any higher, can't stop his legs from splaying open, or his hands from darting up and sinking into the short hairs at the back of Jon's neck. "It feels like I'm on fire."

"Five alarm, or something more pleasant?" Jon says. It helps that he also sounds wrecked, his voice so low Lovett has to strain to hear it.

"That's such a ridiculous question," Lovett says. "You aren't a hot sauce."

Jon pulls back, and not touching him is so suddenly awful, Lovett can't help the whine that slides out of his mouth.

"I want you," Jon says, plain and brave. "Can we do that? Is that what you want?"

"Your sexy, sincere face is so stupid," he says instead, and he's rewarded by the way Jon drops his head back and laughs.

"I'll work on it," he says. "Come on, Lovett. Come to bed. I want to… I want to fuck you already. See what all the fuss is about."

He reaches his hand out, like they're going to link their fingers just to walk back to the living room. Like Lovett needs to be guided.

"All the fuss," Lovett says, gathering a head full of steam. "All the fuss? There is fuss. I'll show you fuss."

Jon smirks at him over his shoulder.

"Hey, Ghost Dog," Lovett says, when they stop in the living room again briefly. Pundit, curled comfortably on the loveseat, lolls her head back to look at him. "You're going to, uh. You're sleeping out here tonight, okay?"

"'She doesn't speak English,'" Jon mocks from behind him. "'She can't understand you'."

"She can't understand Spencer," Lovett argues, easy as breathing. "We have a spiritual connection."

"Spiritual connection, my ass," Jon mutters. Lovett laughs on instinct, because sometimes Jon is funnier than anybody gives him credit for. He shudders, then, too, because Jon's hands are suddenly on his ass, squeezing lightly, but still there. Still touching.

"That's _my_ ass," Lovett says, or at least he thinks he says it. Jon doesn't stop touching him, so he has no way of knowing. 

"Yeah," Jon groans. He still hasn't dropped his hands.

Lovett lets Jon herd him toward the bedroom like that, blinking a little so his eyes can adjust to the dimmer light at the other end of the hallway. He kind of freezes just inside the door, taking in the overflowing hamper and the rumpled, unmade bed, but—that's dumb. Jon's seen all of this before. He knows who Lovett is.

Somehow, despite this, Jon's here anyway. When Lovett turns around to look up at him, rocking forward on the balls of his feet, Jon's smiling. The small, private curve of his mouth makes Lovett's stomach flip.

"Well?" Lovett says, defaulting to demanding, because he doesn't know how else to be. Jon's laughing when he leans in to kiss him, which feels right. The newness of it still startles him, like it's all he can do to hold on and keep up. At some point Lovett feels the backs of his knees hit the edge of the mattress, and then they're both falling backward across it, one of Jon's knees planted between Lovett's legs, his hands tracing Lovett's ribs through his shirt, their faces hovering inches apart.

Slowly, as Lovett watches, Jon reaches out with one hand and clicks Lovett's bedside lamp on. "Is this okay?" he asks, hushed.

"Yes," Lovett says, and it comes out more tremulous than he means.

"How do you—" Jon says, pausing as he considers. "What do you usually do when Ronan's not around?"

"Are you asking how I jerk off?" Lovett asks, voice too high, chin jutting out. "I have hands, Jon. And if you look in that box in the dresser, there's a whole _slew_ of various instruments with which I—"

"Lovett," Jon says, his hand, maddeningly, brushing against Lovett's neck. "Okay. I get it."

He leans down, and they're kissing again. Lovett wants to push him off, or maybe what he really wants is more skin. "Off," he groans, tugging at the worn, soft material of Jon's gray button-up. "Get this off so I can touch you."

"You too," Jon says, leaning back to undress himself. 

"Oh god, put it back on," Lovett says, pretending to shield his eyes once Jon is shirtless, even though he can't sustain the position for too long. He wants too much. Jon looks too good.

"Your turn," Jon whispers. His fingers are running up and down Lovett's sides, playing him like a symphony.

"Not a chance," Lovett says, but it's a weak protest, considering Jon is already leaning in and helping him pull his t-shirt off.

"Look at you," he says. "You have no idea."

"What?" Lovett asks, after ten seconds, twenty seconds, what feels like eight hours of Jon sitting on him and staring, and not finishing his fucking sentences. "Jon."

Jon looks up at him. Meeting his eyes feels more dangerous than anything else they've done so far tonight.

"What?" Jon asks.

Lovett's mouth is dry. "You need to tell me. I don't know what I'm doing, and you're my married business partner, and you're my… you're my…"

"I'm your what?" Jon mumbles. He's looming again, but Lovett is too overwhelmed to tell him to stop.

He closes his eyes so he won't have to look, but the darkness doesn't make him any braver. "You know you're—you're one of my people. Why do I have to keep reminding you?"

"I can't imagine," Jon says. It sounds like he's smiling. "You're always so nice to me."

"It's not like you're nice to me," Lovett argues, has to open his eyes to do it, has to see Jon's amused smirk and his gentle eyes.

"Hi," Jon says.

Lovett says, "Hi," back, and Jon beams at him. It's awful, but he can't help himself, tugging Jon down by the back of his neck.

They kiss for a long time. Lovett's limbs go from tense, to heavy, to tense all over again, but he doesn't stop, and Jon doesn't either, their tongues tangling with each other in a silent, secret argument he doesn't exactly understand. 

"Lovett." Jon gasps his name like a benediction, his whole body shuddering. "We have to. We have to do something. I'm so hard. I'm so hard, and you are too. I can feel it."

He sounds awed. Lovett's muscles have atrophied into nothing. All his bones—except for one—have liquified with the touch of Jon's hands and the slide of his tongue. Honestly, he's not sure he'll survive anything more than this.

"What do you want to do?" he asks.

"I want to make you feel good," Jon says without missing a beat, eyes bright. "Whatever you want, Lovett."

"God," Lovett says. "Okay. You want to fuck me? Hands and knees? Is that fine? What's your preference?" 

"I'd rather," Jon says, stopping short and muttering something unintelligible under his breath. "Hands and knees is fine. That's—shit, Lovett. Everything is fucking fine. You look good."

"Flattery will get you everywhere," Lovett quips, his voice steadier than the rest of him as he moves inelegantly out from Jon's embrace. 

"I'm just going to, uh, you know," Jon says, sounding strangled. "I have to take off my pants."

"If you ever wondered why I don't wear pants with zippers 90% of the time, it's this," Lovett says, easily shoving his sweats down to his thighs, and peeking over his shoulder at Jon tugging his too tight khakis down and kicking them off.

"Efficient," Jon says, exhaling slowly. He peels his underwear off, too, dropping them onto the floor, and then he's kneeling on Lovett's bed, naked and hard, eyes shining.

What a picture. Lovett's tried very hard not to let himself think this far, even after he and Ronan had first started talking about—possible arrangements. What Lovett wanted. Jon's skin looks golden bathed in the soft lamplight, chest rising and falling gently with each breath he takes, five o'clock shadow standing out in stark relief. His fingers twitch, even as Lovett watches, like Jon would love nothing more than to touch him again. Here, now, with just this, the visual—it's going to be impossible to forget.

Jon tilts his head. "You have stuff?" he asks, and Lovett lets out a short huff of breath. Jesus Christ. It's such a cliche, getting so distracted by the form that he's lost sight of the heart of the matter. The purpose.

"Yeah," he says, and nods at his bedside drawer, turns around to face the headboard and closes his eyes. He can hear the scrape of wood against wood, Jon fumbling with a crinkly condom package. The plastic click of Lovett's bottle of lube being opened. Behind him, Jon's knees shift against the mattress. "You know what you're doing, right? Or do you need a diagram?"

Jon laughs, too high, a little bit of nervousness bleeding through. "I'm, uh, familiar with the logistics," he says, and then, because he's Jon, he leans up to drop a kiss on the back of Lovett's neck.

 _The logistics_ , Lovett thinks, the words bouncing around in the echo chamber of his head. He can't help turning them over, following them down the rabbit hole, imagining Jon and Emily, Jon and other men, Jon and—

Lovett's suddenly desperately curious about how much Jon and Tommy have done; Jon said not much, but then again, he's always been respectful and tight-lipped. Now isn't the time to push him, but it's impossible to stop thinking about it. Impossible to stop trying to fit the puzzle pieces of their private lives together.

When he feels the first brush of Jon's fingers against his hole, he hisses, tensing. It would be easier to do this, maybe, if they were facing each other.

"Lovett," Jon says. There's a brief moment where Lovett can't feel Jon at all anymore, and then a warm hand nudges at his hip, coaxing him to flip over again. Jon's biting his lower lip when Lovett looks up at him.

"I know," Lovett says, but it's hard to relax when every part of his body feels too keyed up, like a bow strung tight, waiting for release. "I, uh. I can't stop thinking about you and Tommy. I'm not some six foot tall built bro, Jon. If this is a pity fuck, I'm going to shove you out the window." Jon kisses down his shoulder, warm and soft, and Lovett's arms shake, a tremor running up his spine. "Shit," he mutters with feeling.

On his back, with his stomach exposed, legs half-spread, it's hard not to feel vulnerable. Lovett just manages not to cross his arms over his chest.

"Pity fuck?" Jon sounds incredulous, tangling Lovett's fingers in his grip, and surges upwards so that Lovett can feel how hard he is. "Tommy and I haven't done _this_." He pauses, throat working like he wants to say more, but then he shakes his head, eyes imploring. "There isn't anybody I'm thinking about right now but you."

Lovett squeezes his fingers around Jon's dick because he can, because that incidental contact is the only leverage he has. Jon gasps, his head bowing forward, but he doesn't move to dislodge Lovett's hand.

"Okay," Lovett says. He moves to try and turn over again, but Jon's hand stays at Lovett's hip, pressing him down, keeping him pinned.

"Hey, no. Can we—like this?" Jon ducks his head, bites his lip, like he's the one with reason to be shy. "I wanna see you."

"You see me all the time." Lovett's voice cracks in the middle of the sentence. It always gives him away.

"Please?" Jon asks. He makes eye contact again, unflinching this time, and—God. "I know it's not as… Men.com hardcore as maybe you were looking for. Truck stop glory holes and all that."

It's such a surprising thing for Jon to say that Lovett laughs out loud. It's sweet, watching the pleased flush skate down Jon's skin. In particular moments of weakness, Lovett's wondered about how far his blushes go. Now he knows.

"What the fuck do you know about Men.com?" Lovett asks, pushing up onto his elbows. "Do you have a secret kinky side? Wait, what am I saying? Of course you do. Of course it's not all vanilla missionary porn and chintz throw pillows. Of course you'd be into—into—"

He has more, but Jon's touching him again, one hand on Lovett's neck, and the other curling around his leaking dick.

"I am into you," Jon says decisively. "I want to know what you're into."

"Right now I just want to get fucked," Lovett says. "I haven't, uh," he can feel himself blushing too, wants to turn his face away, but the way Jon's palm squeezes the side of his neck gently stops him. "I haven't done any of the other stuff, Jon. I don't know."

"Okay," Jon says, and then, "Lie back, okay? I want to try something."

"What?"

"Knees up," Jon says, and then he's leaning in, free hand flat on Lovett's stomach, and taking the head of Lovett's dick in his mouth.

"What," Lovett repeats, gasping at the overwhelming heat of Jon's mouth. "This is what you're—are you trying to lull me into a sense of—"

His words stutter to a stop entirely when he feels Jon's fingers against him, slick, insistent, and thick, a blunt pressure that feels almost excruciatingly good, and even better once they're actually inside him.

"Fuck," Lovett groans. "Fuck."

"You're so tight," Jon gasps, pulling off and wiping off his mouth with the back of his wrist. His tongue flicks out, darting lazily against his bottom lip. When their eyes meet again, Lovett feels like he's about to explode. 

"Where did you learn how to do that?" he asks. He thinks he asks, anyway. Jon's long, graceful fingers are moving inside of him steadily, twisting on every other upswing.

"Men.com," Jon says, flashing him another grin, a shoulder shimmy that's so fucking on-brand, Lovett can barely stand it. "What, did you think I wouldn't do any research?"

"I should have known better," Lovett says on autopilot. "You're right. Hard to believe that—"

Jon flicks his eyes up. "Before you ask me, yes, I have given blowjobs before, but not in a long time. No, I'm not going to tell you who. Yes, I googled porn on safe mode so I wouldn't embarrass myself later. I watched an hour's worth of videos." His mouth relaxes into a softer smile. "I really want to blow you, Lovett. Let me make you feel good."

"Yeah, okay," Lovett answers, shaky and sweating.

"That's the level of enthusiasm I want," Jon says rolling his eyes, but that doesn't stop him from ducking his head down again. 

Jon's fingers are slim, but he knows what he's doing. Lovett gets lost in between all the sensations, Jon's pretty lips and curled fingers, Jon's tight grip and his soft hands. It's too much, and it's not enough, and Lovett only pops his eyes open again when it feels like Jon is moving his fingers away.

"What," he slurs. "Don't."

"Shh, shh," Jon whispers. "Just going to add a third, or do you think you can—do you think you can take me now?"

Take him now, Lovett thinks wildly. Take him now, _now_ , Jon inside of him, one final barrier they can't come back from.

"Lovett," Jon says. "What do you want?"

"Fuck you, just do it. Do something."

Jon hums, and says, "I think I'll add a third one. You're so tight. I'm not huge, but I don't want to hurt you."

 _Not huge_ , Lovett thinks dizzily. "You couldn't hurt me if you tried," he says.

"Let's not find out, huh?" Jon whispers.

He mouths against the thick vein pulsing on Lovett's dick, slides back up and flicks his tongue against the slit at the head and then slowly, slowly drops his head back down, hollowing his cheeks so he can take more of Lovett's length inside his mouth.

When Jon fits his third finger alongside the other two, Lovett feels his eyes rolling back in his head. "Jon, Jon," he groans, amazed that he can speak. "Jon, it's not _enough_."

"Are you sure?" Jon asks, when he pulls off. He stills his fingers and then slides them out entirely. Lovett groans. He can feel himself fluttering, aching from the loss of Jon's hands, and it takes him a moment to realize he's started crying from the stimulation. He can feel how wet his face is.

"I'm so sure," he pushes out through gritted teeth. "I will do anything you want for the rest of my fucking life if you just put your dick in me already."

Jon laughs, but it sounds punched right out of him. "Yeah, okay. Okay. I've got you."

From the corner of his eye, Lovett watches as Jon drips more lube on his fingers, slicking up his dick, and the condom, pressing his thumb inside again.

"What," Lovett says, but it's just a momentary intrusion. Jon's hands move quickly, curling against the backs of Lovett's knees. 

"Fuck, you look good like this," he mumbles, leaning in and pressing a messy kiss to Lovett's forehead. His lips are chapped, breaths coming out tightly, and when he moves again, Lovett can feel it. 

On the next pass, Jon is inside of him, the blunt, thick head of his dick lighting Lovett up.

"Oh my god," he gasps, or maybe they both do. He feels like he's pouring with sweat, and Jon's hairline is damp too. They're fitted so tightly against each other that every tiny shift of Jon's body feeds into his, an endless loop of give and return.

"You," Jon groans dumbly. He has his eyes closed and his mouth hanging open, and he's still so stupidly pretty that Lovett can barely stand it.

"How do you look so good right now?" Lovett whines. "How is that even possible? You're such an asshole."

"It's your," Jon pants, working his hips into a loose rhythm once he finally bottoms out, "it's your asshole, you jerk."

Lovett doesn't mean to laugh, but he can't help it, couldn't have stopped it if he tried. He doesn't quite have enough breath for it, and Jon steals the rest of it anyway, presses another sloppy kiss against Lovett's mouth. He rolls his hips, smoother each time. _Of course_ , Lovett thinks, distantly annoyed. _Of course his learning curve here would be steep as hell, too._ Then one of Jon's hands comes around to palm Lovett's dick, tight and slick and perfect, and every other thought flies out of his mind.

His body takes over instead: his ankles cross behind Jon's back, legs squeezing around Jon's hips as he fucks him into the headboard. He can't tell if the burn in his chest is from lack of air or Jon's weight holding him down. Probably both, and either way, he's going to be able to feel it tomorrow, can already feel it in the stretch of his thighs and the arch of his back.

Jon slides in again, just right, and Lovett says, "Fuck," too high and too sharp. He bites down against Jon's lower lip hard enough that Jon grunts, breathless, and pulls back a little to gaze at him, eyes trailing down to catch at the hollow of Lovett's bared throat before he leans back in to suck at Lovett's jumping pulse. Jon is honest-to-God _glistening_ , broad-shouldered and sinuous, his hips moving faster, the slick squelch of Jon sliding inside him intermingling with the pants of their breath and the creaking of the bed.

Lovett's instinct is to curl in on himself, his stomach fluttering as heat rolls up his thighs and his spine; he turns so his mouth is pressed against Jon's sweaty temple. He doesn't know what he's saying anymore, doesn't know if he's saying anything at all, just that his lips are moving against Jon's skin, throat scraped raw, legs clamped so tight around Jon's waist by now that it's a wonder Jon can still move. Jon's murmuring against his neck, too, Lovett's name over and over again, _God_ and _yes_ and _so fucking tight, so good, gorgeous_ , and Lovett would protest, wouldn't be able to stop himself from objecting, if it weren't for how he seems to have lost, momentarily, the capacity to form proper words.

He comes inelegantly, on a shout, full and covered and warm and damp, body singing with it, one arm scrambling around the back of Jon's neck and the other hand scrabbling down his shoulder. Jon groans, lifting his head with effort, eyes wide and wild, and Lovett reaches up to touch his face. Jon turns to kiss the pad of his thumb. Something in Lovett's chest lurches as Jon's mouth twists and his forehead wrinkles, hips stuttering in one last time before he groans again and goes still.

"Your O face is so dumb," Lovett says into the quiet, after a long minute of breathing, and when Jon lifts his head again, he's laughing sleepily. He's still in Lovett, splitting him open, pressed flush against him everywhere, sticky and gross. It feels fucking incredible.


	2. Chapter 2

At some point during the night, Lovett must have flipped onto his stomach, because he wakes up that way, face smashed into a pillow, eyeline facing out the window at the moonless night.

"It's so early," he whines, turning over and watching the bow of Jon's back as he bends to tug his socks on. "What are you doing?"

"Hi, Lovett," Jon says. He has a smile on, soft and indulgent, but he doesn't make eye contact right away. "Good morning to you too."

"It's not morning," Lovett says, stretching his arms high above his head and groaning. He doesn't do it specifically to see if Jon will look at him, but the fact that he does certainly doesn't hurt. "Are you leaving? Did you spend the night?"

It's not bright enough to be able to tell, but Lovett knows Jon is blushing. 

"It's a little after 4am," Jon says, which is at least an answer to one of his questions. "Do you want to come to brunch with us tomorrow? Hanna's parents are in town."

For as much shit as Lovett gives them on the pod, Jon always asks. Has always asked. Tommy, too. It's just that being a fifth wheel amidst happy couples is as stupid as it is pathetic.

"How do you really think that's going to go?" Lovett asks. "Hey, Hanna. Hey, Tommy. Hey, Kochs. Guess what? Emily's husband had his dick up my—"

Jon leans in, kissing the words right off of his mouth, which is… unexpected. Jon's half dressed, the two ends of his belt buckle banging against Lovett's hips.

Lovett's mind is blank, but his fingers move on autopilot, reaching up and curling around Jon's wrists, where he has his hands on either side of Lovett's face.

"What," he mumbles. "Stop."

"I will," Jon says, but he doesn't. They end up flat against the mattress again, kissing so hard that Lovett's ears start ringing. 

"Your mouth is disgusting," Lovett says, pulling back to thunk his head against his pillows. He runs his tongue along his bottom teeth, his lips. They feel bruised.

"Yours too," Jon says, but he's smiling again, eyes twinkling like they have a secret. Well. They kind of do. Something shifts on Jon's face, and he extricates himself slowly, easing his way off the bed again. "I gotta go."

"Who's stopping you?" Lovett asks. "Go."

"I'm going," Jon says, but he doesn't. Lovett tugs the sheet up, covering his hips and stomach so that Jon can't see anything he might not want to. 

"Do you want," Lovett starts, and then something butts against the door, startling them both. Pundit whines, and then barks twice. "Shit, I have to take her out."

"Want me to do it?" Jon says. He finishes buckling his belt and pulls on his shirt while Lovett watches.

"I can walk my own dog," Lovett says, squirming.

"Sure you can." Jon doesn't leer, but Lovett can feel himself blushing, anyway. Every one of their interactions is going to be tinged with this now, this awareness. Maybe it'll go away eventually. Maybe it's all in his head. "I gotta go."

"You said. Go already," Lovett says. Jon fits his watch back in place and pats down his pockets. He looks so normal. Lovett can't stop watching him.

"What do you want me to tell Tommy and Hanna?" Jon does make eye contact now. Of course he does. Jon doesn't do anything by half measures.

"Hanna," Lovett repeats. He's not sure why Hanna would care who Jon is fucking, but maybe that's part of how it works with the four of them. Or maybe Emily wants to compare open relationship notes with someone who's been doing it for longer. Maybe Lovett should talk to her too, message her beneath the current litany of book recommendations in their text chain; maybe she'll have tips for how not to completely implode your life after having sex with your friends. Maybe they could all teach him how to stop feeling too much.

"About brunch tomorrow," Jon says. "I'm assuming you're not in, right?"

Oh. Right. Brunch. Lovett meets his eyes and forces a smile. "You assume correctly."

"Okay," Jon says. He clears his throat again. "So, I'll see you."

They have to do this. They have to talk it out or it will be so awkward. It's absurd, the idea that hours ago, Jon was inside of him. That they spent part of the night nestled together in Lovett's bed. He's going to need to change these sheets immediately, if not skip out on his lease entirely and leave all his crap inside for the next renter, sight unseen. 

"I understand that it would make a lot of sense for this to make things awkward now, but let's not let it. It wasn't a big deal, right? People have sex all the time."

"They do." In the low light, Lovett can't tell how pink Jon is, but his mouth does something funny. From the hallway, Pundit barks. "If you don't take her out soon, she's going to take a shit on that nice Aubusson rug your mom got you, and you'll have no one to blame but yourself."

"She wouldn't," Lovett says, but they both know she has, and would again. "Fuck it, fine," he says. "I'm getting up now."

Jon shrugs. "Or you could just let me do it. I'm going to go home, and, um, shower, and then go for a run. I can take her with me. Really shake her legs out."

Maybe Lovett should argue, but he's tired, and sore in places he hasn't been in a long time. "Yeah, fine. Thank you."

"Yeah," Jon says. His hands are twitching at his sides. "Is the. Do you have the spare key under that empty planter, still?" 

He and Emily haven't even been gone half a year. Maybe their entire lives have been uprooted, but nothing about Lovett's has at all. Same old routine.

"You could check," he says, "but I told Spencer to put it back there if he took her out last night, so it should be."

"Okay," Jon says. 

Pundit's whines have gotten increasingly louder. He can hear her butting her head against the door every couple seconds, but Lovett feels rooted to the spot.

"You should go," he says, and Jon nods again, but he doesn't move.

"Lovett," Jon says.

"Go home, Jon," Lovett says, and it comes out too high to be casual. Jon doesn't flinch, exactly, but the concerned slant of his eyebrows says it all. "I'll see you Monday."

"Bright and early," Jon agrees, making an exaggerated hand gesture. Lovett gives him a smile that feels a little more real before Jon turns to go.

;;

The next time he rolls over, it's half past eleven, and Pundit's snoozing in the sheets crumpled at the foot of his bed, which means Jon managed to let himself in and then sneak back out again without waking him.

He has a text from Hanna inviting him to brunch with her parents, and another from Tommy confirming that they'd love to have him. When he's excited about something, Tommy uses too many exclamation points.

There's also a text from Ronan, which makes Lovett's stomach clench with panic before he remembers that they've been here before. Ronan won't leave him because of this.

 _Did he tucker you out?_ Ronan's text reads, and it's not really funny, but it is, in a morbid way, doing a postmortem with his boyfriend after getting railed by somebody else. Lovett hits the FaceTime button in their text thread, and waits for Ronan to answer. 

"He wakes!"

"Ha ha," Lovett says. "Hi. Good… morning?"

"It's afternoon for me," Ronan says, "and almost afternoon for you too, come to think of it. How long were you guys going at it, anyway? Was it good?"

He leers into the camera for effect, and it makes Lovett laugh out loud, even though the pressure in his gut doesn't abate at all. 

"It was fine," he says, looking over Ronan's shoulder at his enormous flatscreen. It looks like he's been watching CNN. If Lovett narrows his eyes enough, he can sort of make it out. It might be coverage of Syria.

"It was fine," Ronan mocks. "Come on! Did he come too early? Could he not get hard? When I hadn't heard from you at all this morning, I worried that I'd read that two of Crooked Media's most popular podcast hosts had run away together on Twitter."

"Come on," Lovett mocks, rolling his eyes. "The sex was great, but running away? As if he could put up with me for that long."

Ronan sobers quickly. "So the sex was great, huh?"

"Yes," Lovett says, meeting Ronan's eyes again. "It was—it was stupid and overwhelming. His O face is super dumb. Who knew Jon Favreau could even do ugly? Not me." 

"Me neither," Ronan says, soft.

They're both quiet for a little while. Long enough for Lovett to remember that he hasn't showered or dressed himself since Jon left in the middle of the night. He can feel himself blushing, hopes it doesn't show clearly through the pixelated phone screen.

"Are you going to do it again?" Ronan asks.

Lovett's mouth goes dry. "Ronan," he says, plaintive.

"Jonathan," he replies, eternally patient.

Lovett lets his eyes slide shut for a minute, taking stock of the steady ache in his legs, the way his back twinges a little every time he moves, the satisfying stretch in his limbs. How, even now, his body still sore from last night—how he would do it all over, if given the opportunity. Fuck.

Ronan's eyebrows are raised when Lovett looks at him again, like he already knows the answer. "Yeah," Lovett says, letting the word sink between them. "Yeah, I want to. Yeah, it was good. He's a lot. Too much, maybe, but I already want to do it again. Whether he wants to is a different story, but yeah. No bullshit. It was good. It felt… I feel good."

"Okay," Ronan says, clearing his throat and then repeating himself. "That's good, Jon. That's how you should feel."

Lovett can feel himself making a face. He doesn't bother trying to hide it, considering Ronan can see everything else hanging out in the open.

"I don't think 'should' plays into anything. I still think this is going to blow up in everybody's face. I'm going to have to leave the company. Maybe sometimes Tommy will send me carrier pigeons with monthly updates, like during the war—"

"Which war was that again?" Ronan asks, the corner of his mouth twitching. His voice is so warm and non-judgmental that it—it's weird. Lovett can feel the breadth of it enveloping him, trying to stop his panic spiral in its tracks. 

"How are you so calm?" Lovett blurts. He can't entirely curb the suspicious tone in his voice.

When he drags his eyes up to meet Ronan's through the screen, they're the same as ever. He doesn't look any different from the guy Lovett ate shitty Chinese takeout with on the floor of the EEOB one night in 2011 and somehow changed his life forever. It's sappy and too sentimental, but it's real.

He must make another face, because instead of answering his question, Ronan laughs and says, "What?" and, "You look like a disgruntled cat when you make that face. Don't do it if you don't want me to coo at you."

"You're so _relaxed_ ," Lovett says again. It's okay to let conversations go sometimes, but not this. Not when it's so important. "I don't get it. I know I talked acted calm and put together after you kept sleeping with Marc and Shannon, but I was not chill about it at all. Aren't you jealous? Doesn't it bug you to think about me—to think about me with Jon?"

He feels so exposed, and even more so when Ronan says, soft but firm, "No." He doesn't dwell on it. "Were you that calm? Hmm. Anyway, it's not like we haven't talked about this. At length. I'm relaxed because you told me there's nothing to worry about. I love you. I trust you. I trust _Jon_. If it feels good for you, it feels good for me, babe."

"Right." Lovett falls back against the mattress and holds a pillow over his face for a moment. He doesn't feel very trustworthy, but maybe Ronan feels it hard enough for the both of them. "What do you have going on for the rest of the weekend?" he asks, once he's pulled the cotton away from his face. He's not ready to look at Ronan yet, but they can still hear each other like this.

"I have that friend-Christmas thing with Ryan and Julie tonight, and then a business brunch tomorrow with my editor from Vanity Fair. What about you? Any other sexcapades in your future?"

Lovett groans. "If it happens, I'll text you, but not a moment before." He takes a breath and adds, "Hanna's parents are in town, and they want to take us—and by us, I mean, Tommy and Hanna and Emily and Jon, and fifth-wheel me—out for brunch tomorrow. I already said no. Don't bother trying to talk me into it."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Ronan says, and on his end of the video call, Lovett can hear typing.

Eventually he rolls into his side, looking in on Ronan again. Sometimes they'll do this, just coexist quietly in each other's days, but Ronan's various deadlines plus all the recent live shows they've been doing, it's been a while since they've had the time.

"This is nice," he says after a while, watches the way Ronan smiles to himself before looking up at the camera to make eye contact.

"It is nice," he agrees. "You're cute when you're fucked out and half awake."

"You're cute all the time," Lovett counters, stretching his arms above his head and sitting up again. "Tell me again that you're really okay with me fucking Favreau, Ronan. Being fucked by him. Tell me, because I really—I really liked it, but you are more important than a convenient fuck, and frankly… frankly, so is he. I'm probably going to ask you another thirty times, but this'll be the last one today, at least. So tell me. Please, god, tell me." 

Ronan stops typing. Lovett watches as he reaches off camera to grab his Nalgene and take a long sip from it. 

"I'm really okay with it," he says, flicking his tongue out over his lips to catch the stray moisture. "I think you should definitely check in with Emily, but I'm fine."

" _Emily_ ," Lovett says, feeling it when his voice cracks. "Jon is going to talk to Emily."

Ronan rolls his eyes. "Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot this was some sort of patriarchal bullshit where her husband's word was all that mattered. Come on. If you have to ask me eighty times if I'm fine with it, and you have to ask Jon a hundred times if he's fine with it, the least you can do is also check in with Emily, who is probably also fine with it, but still deserves a voice."

"I would never," he starts, flinching, but he's not exactly sure how to finish the sentence. He's already done everything he probably said he wouldn't one time or another. "You're right. I hate when you're right." 

"No, you don't," Ronan says. "I have a lot of experience being right." 

"You have a lot of experience being an asshole," Lovett volleys back, watching Ronan roll his eyes but grin through it.

"That's also true." A pause, and then: "For what it's worth, I think you should go to that brunch with the Kochs tomorrow. It'll be good for you." 

"Shut up. You have no idea what it's like to go to those things, when everybody else is coupled up and dripping with romance and heart eyes, and not only are you late, but you have an unidentified stain on your pants."

"Oh, that's right," Ronan says, staring directly into the camera. The force of his gaze hits Lovett like a punch to the gut. "My partner doesn't live on the other side of the country from me. I have no idea what that could possibly be like." 

He's deadpan, still smiling, but Lovett feels the distance between them like a living thing. 

"Sorry," he says.

"Don't be sorry, baby," Ronan says. It's only a little patronizing when he adds, "It's not about being sorry." 

"Preachy. So fun," says Lovett, because sometimes he can't help being punchy. Ronan laughs, anyway, which is all that really matters. "What is it about, then? I have enough guilt without needing to—to hear how mad Emily is at me for sleeping with her husband. I don't want to hear it, and if I can push it off, then why not do that?"

Ronan flops back on his own mattress and sighs. Lovett can barely breathe until he speaks again. "You already did it," he says. "If she's mad, if she's hurt, if she doesn't care, if she does… Jon. You already did it. It's done. No take-backs."

He's not wrong. As usual. Fuck.

"Okay," Lovett hears himself say, even as his stomach sinks. "Okay, I'll go." If he keeps thinking about Emily, he's going to do something stupid, like burst into tears, which would be truly horrific. 

He knew going into this that none of it would be simple, but he hadn't anticipated the hollow pang in his chest imagining a world in which Emily might not invite him over for the Bachelor watch parties anymore, might not send him pictures of Leo sunbathing on the deck in the backyard, might not keep ordering Postmates for three instead of two, the slow withdrawal of every privilege of friendship they've built up with each other over the years. He can't just brush aside the very real possibility that things between them have changed forever. That's not how it works when you're the dog that caught the car.

"Jon," Ronan says. He's propped up on his elbows now, head tilted, mouth quirked into a grin. "Anyone ever tell you that you think too much sometimes?"

"Oh, fuck off," Lovett says, but there's no heat to it. When he shifts again, he can feel the sheets sticking to him, and beneath that, the pleasant pull in his thigh muscles. "Shit, I gotta shower."

"Go," Ronan says, waving him off.

"If I don't report back tomorrow, I've drowned myself in the Pacific Ocean, just FYI," Lovett says darkly.

"Drama queen," Ronan says, nose wrinkled, but he's laughing when the call ends.

;;

Lovett has enough friends and enough responsibilities that he deals with during the week that spending the bulk of Saturday doing nothing _seems_ like the perfect plan. He's going to shower, and he's going to put on The Good Place, and he's going to play eight straight hours of Breath of the Wild.

The plan gets derailed in the shower, of course. His body is used and sore, and facing straight ahead as he washes the matted stickiness out of his chest hair doesn't do much to stop him from remembering. The insides of his thighs are inexplicably red and slightly chapped, almost like a person with a scruffy 5 o'clock shadow spent some time between his legs.

"Not thinking about it," he says out loud to himself, and starts shampooing his hair.

Afterwards, he brushes his teeth, shaves, and ignores the beginnings of what looks like a hickey on the left side of his neck. He doesn't even remember Jon—"We're not thinking about it. Right, angel?"

Pundit barks affirmatively at him from her perch on the closed toilet seat, and he lets himself beam at her, instead of casting his mind back and trying to piece together when Jon would have possibly had time to suck a bruise against his skin without him noticing.

When he's clean and dressed again, he checks his phone. Ronan has sent some Snapchats of himself in potential outfits, even though they both know he'll probably make Ryan and Julie wear pajamas to match his own, even if they end up going to that karaoke place they like.

There's another WhatsApp from Tommy that reads, _The Kochs just sent a formal request asking one of their son-in-law's business partners to join us tomorrow. Come on, you love BBCM. We got a reservation and everything._

 _Pretty cold that you're rubbing it in that they asked for Jon by name, Tommy_ , he sends back, and then, before he can change his mind, adds, _Alright. Twist my arm. I need a ride, though._

 _Em and Jon are coming!_ Tommy sends, as though Lovett wouldn't have guessed. _Want me to ask if they can grab you on their way?_

It would be simultaneously so easy and so mortifying to let Tommy ask on his behalf. Tommy, who's just offering because it's in his nature to be as effortlessly helpful as possible.

 _No, thanks_ , Lovett sends back. _I too know how to use a phone._

Tommy sends, _I believe in you._

 _Your faith means the world_ , Lovett returns, hoping Tommy reads it in his head in as sarcastic a tone as possible, and bends down in front of the TV to turn his Nintendo Switch on.

Zelda usually does a pretty good job of calming him down. Easier, really, to immerse himself in running around Hyrule as Link, scaling cliffs or catching fish, than it is to ruminate on the ominous rumbling of imminent disaster in his real life. In the goddamn video game, at least, he knows how to cook.

Today, though, it's harder than usual to ignore the churning in his gut, every physical reminder of what transpired last night. Even sitting on the couch makes his back twinge, and Tommy's invitation hangs over his head like a dark rain cloud. He flops over onto his side and groans into a pillow when it actually starts raining in-game, and Pundit hops onto the cushions to nose at his hair.

"I just can't win," he says, sinking a hand into her soft fur.

She lets out a forlorn whine and turns in a circle before sticking her butt in his face. God. Lovett flops over onto his back to make room for her, because he's a sucker, tugging out his phone. He's been awake long enough that the twist in his stomach feels more like hunger now, and he idly scrolls through Postmates for a minute before ordering his third burrito this week.

He inhales long and slow after he gets the email confirmation, sighing at the aggressive doggy smell wafting over from Pundit. She's needed a bath for at least a week, but Jon must've taken her on a hell of a run this morning. And now he's thinking about it again, thinking about Jon again, his body weighing Lovett down into the mattress, the way he'd lingered this morning, how he and Emily must've spoken by now. Talked about him. _Fuck_ , he thinks, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He hates this limbo. _Just fucking do it._ The longer he puts it off, the more he'll just keep twisting himself into pretzels about everything.

Lovett grimly navigates to WhatsApp, taps into the little box of his chat with Emily. The last thing she sent him was a picture of a rack of discount Hanukkah sweaters she'd seen at the Grove before the party last night, and it makes something in his chest go tight. _Hey_ , he types out, before he can overthink it again, and attaches a slightly blurry selfie of himself and Pundit to the message. _Room for me and my hot date in the back of your car tomorrow on the way to brunch?_

He tosses his phone across the couch after he sends it. By this point, the rain in the game has finally stopped, so he continues his ascent up Mount Nabooru. If he squints, it's almost like hiking Runyon. That's basically all the exercise he needs today.

He's halfway to the top when his phone starts buzzing. 

When he checks it, it's not the disaster he's expecting. Emily has texted, _You're coming? That's awesome! We'll pick you up at 10:30._

It's anticlimactic, but maybe that's not such a bad thing, considering how everything else has gone over the last week. He sighs and shoves his phone in the pocket of his sweats and tips his head toward Pundit. 

"You want to take a bath, angel? Think we can get you washed and dried before my lunch gets here?" She barks at him, butting her head against his stomach again, like she understands what he's saying and is really committed to getting clean.

They could go into the backyard and make a big production of it, but Pundit is kind of a baby when it comes to grooming, which is part of why he does it so infrequently. She starts to get antsy once he stops the sink and starts to fill it with the special shampoo he has for her.

"Come on, honey," he says, dropping to a crouch so that they can be at eye level. "How many miles did you run with Jon this morning, huh? You smell awful. Don't you want to smell like wildflowers? Outside?"

Usually the o-word gets her going, but at the moment she just woofs pathetically at him, and then drops her head, like she wants him to know that she's capitulating, but only under severe duress.

"The guilt is almost too much to bear here, Pundo," he says, scooping her into the sink and making sure the water spurting from the tap isn't too cold or too hot, because if anyone in this family is Goldilocks, it's definitely the dog. "It's right there in the name," he tells her on a laugh, and then snaps a Boomerang of her with suds cascading down her ears to put up on his Instagram story.

Pundit barks at him when she thinks he's not paying enough attention to her, so he shoves the phone back in his pocket and focuses on massaging her ears and making sure to get to all of the hidden spots she'd prefer he didn't notice.

He forgot to grab towels, so when she's clean and drying in a hoodie he had lying around, he pulls his phone out again. He's not surprised to have several notifications, but he hadn't exactly kept track of all the vibrations.

There's the text confirming his burrito from PostMates is on the way, a diatribe from Stephanie about the last season of _How to Get Away With Murder_ that she's been mainlining while laid up with the flu, and several texts and WhatsApps from Tommy and Hanna and Ronan.

 _Shut up with that video_ , Ronan sends. _Were you taking her out to a gulag next? Be nicer to our dog!_

 _She needed to get clean!_ he sends back, leaning down to sniff the top of Pundit's newly sweet smelling head and taking another picture. _Now she smells like roses instead of damp and dog shit._

 _You sure know how to paint a word picture_ , Ronan sends back. Lovett can't help grinning down at his phone, smiling even harder when Ronan sends back a snap of himself in familiar pair of striped pajamas.

_Is that what you're wearing to your friends' Christmas?_

_Obviously._

When he checks again, Pundit has conked out, her nose pressed against the neck of the hoodie, like she's still searching for him, even in her sleep. His phone buzzes, and he checks it again, expecting it to be Ronan, or for Hanna to continue their conversation about the best kind of dog shampoo.

It's Jon instead, a selfie of him kneeling next to Leo sudsed up in the tub. In the photo, Jon is damp, and laughing, and he's written, _Hey! Twins._

Lovett sends back, _Ugh, get your own thing_ , but not before saving the photo onto his phone. He takes another snap of Pundit, this time with the hood pulled up over her head so Jon won't be the last picture in his camera roll.

_Do I have to remind you that your dog is half siblings with my dog? Talk about somebody who needs to get their own thing…_

He can feel himself flushing, which is stupid, not that he can control what happens on his face. _How far did you run them this morning anyway? She's already conked out._

The doorbell rings, and Pundit stirs a little but stays ensconced in her cocoon, snoozing. Lucky girl. Lovett jogs to the front door and flashes the delivery guy a quick, perfunctory smile, accepting the bag of food he hands over. He's tapping through to give the driver a tip when Jon's next text buzzes in. He can hear Jon's sheepish voice in his head as he reads the message: _Haha, sorry, I might have gone a little overboard. Had a lot of energy to burn._

Lovett wants to ask what that's supposed to mean, but it seems like a dangerous road to go down. He's not known for his self control, but sometimes it happens. 

_Well_ , he types back, plopping down on the couch and shaking his burrito out of its bag onto the coffee table, _Hopefully she'll be awake enough to be my plus one to brunch tomorrow._

 _I'm glad you'll be there_ , Jon fires back, as earnest as ever. Then, drier: _Really excited to avoid being berated for not including you during the next two weeks of ads._

Lovett doesn't dignify that with a response; his lunch is calling to him.

;;

Sunday morning dawns cool and misty for Los Angeles, but it warms up quickly. Lovett spends the hour before Jon and Emily arrive taking a leisurely walk with Pundit around the neighborhood and then scrolling through Twitter on his phone.

Twenty past, Emily sends him a text that they're on their way, and Lovett promptly has a last-minute crisis about the clothes he threw on after rolling out of bed. It's not like it matters that much what he shows up to Sunday brunch in, but he's nervous anyway, every other uncomfortable dangling thing in his life sublimated into worry about whether or not Mr. and Mrs. Koch are going to care if he doesn't wear a button-down.

He ends up tugging a softer henley over his head, one that he's pretty sure he appropriated from Ronan years ago, and goes for a less wrinkled pair of jeans fresh out of the closet. He's clipping Pundit's leash on at the door when the Audi pulls up to the curb, soft strains of Taylor Swift floating over the lawn.

Jon's eyes are unreadable through the dark lenses of his RayBans, which is probably just as well. Emily tilts her head and squints at Lovett over her sunglasses when he deposits Pundit in the back seat with Leo. 

"I like the shirt," she says, after a long moment, the corner of her mouth quirking up. Lovett rolls his eyes, but he can't help smiling back, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders.

"Who is willingly awake this early on a Sunday? This is the second time I've done it in two weeks. Letdown," Lovett grumbles, sliding into car and shutting the door behind him.

Jon's laughing as he shifts the car to drive and pulls away from the house. "So are we positive influences or negative influences?"

"Woah, woah, slow down. I'm not ready to decide yet. Let's not be too hasty." Lovett slouches in his seat, the wind ruffling his hair as they breeze down the boulevard.

"How many times did you change this morning?" Emily asks casually, after lulling Lovett into a false sense of security. When she peeks at him over the head rest, he can just see her smirking.

"What," he says. "You don't believe I could be this effortlessly stylish?"

"I kind of forgot what it was like to see you in anything but sweatpants," Jon pipes up from the driver's seat. 

Lovett says, without thinking, "How dare you. You're the one swanning around the office with your henleys fully unbuttoned every day. Or those obscenely tight shirts, how is anyone supposed to focus when—"

He cuts himself off, swallowing hard, and stares down at his legs. From the front seat, Emily says, "You know, I think about that all the time too."

"What?" Lovett asks.

She shrugs, and leans across to curve her hand around Jon's wrist. "I picked out half of those shirts and sometimes it's still a surprise when I look at him and find myself daydreaming about what he looks like naked." Jon lets out a soft breath of a laugh, squirming in his seat. "I just meant that I can relate to what you're saying." 

_I don't want to have this conversation right now_ , he thinks, but instead, he says, "So we're talking about this, huh?"

"If you want to," Emily says, and then, after clearing her throat. "I kind of want to." 

As Lovett watches, she drops Jon's hand and reaches back to grab his instead. Her grip is firm, but when she speaks, her tone is normal.

"We don't have to get into the sex stuff, if you don't want to," she concedes. "I know you have boundaries when it comes to that."

"Boundaries," he repeats, at this place in his head where there's nothing but white noise. "Yeah, those are real important to me."

"Lovett," she says, and when he looks at her again, she's smiling. "Why are you acting all squirrelly?"

" _Squirrelly_?" he asks, voice cracking. "I am not—!"

"You kind of are," Jon muses. Lovett doesn't try to meet his eyes in the mirror again, feels hot shame sliding through him like water.

"Shut up, Jon," he says, surprised to hear Emily's choice echoing him.

She smiles at him again. "Did you have fun?"

"Yes," he says, instead of punting the question. He's still not looking at Jon, but Emily is, shifted in her seat so she can peer at both of them.

"And you want to do it again? Both of you."

Jon speaks before Lovett even has his thoughts in working order, says, "I would. Yes. Please."

Please, Lovett thinks, the word ringing through his overtaxed brain like a chime. Please, please, please, Jon's hands on his skin, Jon's tongue in his mouth. Jon's dick in his—"Yeah," Lovett agrees, barely there. "Me too."

"Good," says Emily, settling back down in her seat. She has to let go of Lovett's wrist to do so, and he feels the lack of it, his skin cool to the touch now.

They're all quiet for the next few minutes, save for "Look What You Made Me Do" tinkling not unpleasantly from the speakers. Lovett lets out a breath, waiting for Emily to continue, but she doesn't.

"Wait," he says, startling Pundit into barking questioningly at him. "That's it? _Good_? You're all good with me fucking your husband? You don't care?" 

"Lovett," Jon says in a warning tone, as he takes a turn.

"No, I'm sorry, I'm not trying to start a fight, I'm just—'good'?" He can't stop himself now that he's begun; he's never met a good scab he couldn't pick at incessantly. "I know you guys have some loose views of fidelity, but isn't this a little too much? Isn't it crossing a line? Sure, you wrote your own vows, but isn't it implied that you don't want your spouse catting around?"

"Loose?" Jon asks. He sounds annoyed. Good. He shares a look with Emily that Lovett can't interpret and then adds, in a lower, icy voice, "'Catting around'? Is that what you're calling what we did?" 

"It was sex," Lovett hisses. The fact that his stomach sinks when Jon doesn't immediately argue tells him different, and he digs his thumbs against his thighs to keep from saying more.

They pull up to the valet, and Lovett thinks: _shit, this is it. The first crack in the foundation. Over before it even got started. Stupid, stupid mouth._

Emily catches both their arms as they all get out of the car, keeping them away from the entrance to the restaurant. If Lovett cranes his neck, he can see Tommy talk with his hands, gesticulating toward the menu or the architecture or the weather, Lucca beneath them jumping up on his thighs. Pundit barks at the sight of her, and Leo echoes it.

"Lovett," she says, soft but commanding. Her gaze shifts to Jon and then back again, shoulders set. "I don't think it was just sex for Jon. If—if that's all it was for you, then maybe we have to renegotiate."

The muscle in Jon's jaw is jumping. Lovett watches him work his mouth, imagines his teeth grinding the way they sometimes do when he's stressed. His own palms are sweating. He has to work to keep his breath even. 

"What do you want me to say," he says. He can't make it a question, can't call more attention to himself, even though clumping together like this outside has left the three of them open and exposed. 

"Just tell me what you want," Jon says, pushing up his sunglasses so that Lovett can see the naked emotion on his face.

"What do you," he starts, but Jon cuts him off. 

"Lovett," he says simply. 

Standing in the front of the restaurant, Tommy has definitely noticed them. Lovett can tell because he's drawn everyone away from the door, holding Lucca in his arms now, making Hanna laugh.

"Fine. It wasn't just sex, okay?" Every word feels like pulling teeth. "I was mean because I was cornered and I hate being cornered. You know this. Both of you guys know this. Why do we have to talk about it?"

"Lovett," Emily says. She looks encouraged, almost, which is somehow even more confusing. "All we wanted was for you to be honest, okay? That's it. Thank you."

If they were hugging people, this is when they'd do it. This is the movie montage—as if anyone would be ridiculous to make a movie about this oncoming disaster. This is the mumblecore indie montage, where Emily hugs him, and Jon kisses him, right here, out in the open.

"Can we go in? I need a mimosa. I need three mimosas. I'm more exhausted than I was after Jon fucked me into my mattress at 2am yesterday morning." At their startled laughs, he forces himself to smile and says, "What, it's not okay to joke about? You asked for this."

Emily laughs again, winding their arms together as they cross the street. "See?" she says, tossing her head. "That wasn't so bad, huh?"

"Define 'bad'," he says in low tones, scooping Pundit up so she doesn't go right for Lucca. He grins at the Kochs, whom of course Jon swoops in to hug immediately.

"You okay?" Tommy asks nearly silently, sliding next to him all of a sudden. Way too close. "That powwow out there looked intense."

"Intense how?" Lovett volleys back. His pulse is fluttering madly, Pundit growling softly against his collarbone.

Tommy tilts his head and says, "I asked you first."

Lovett closes his eyes for a moment, trying to steady himself. Breathes in the clean smell of Pundit's fur. "I'm okay," he says, as firm as he can, looking Tommy in the eye, daring him to challenge it. "Hungry, though. You treating?"

"Not a chance," Tommy says, jostling their elbows together.

Lovett rolls his eyes, but it's easier than expected to laugh. "But you owe me," he says, just to watch Tommy's eyes flash.

"He's not wrong, babe," Hanna says, and Tommy's outraged sputtering makes Lovett laugh again, something warm setting into his belly.

As they get ushered onto the patio, dogs and bags and parents in tow, Tommy says, "I owe him breakfast because he bought pizza one time?"

"Two times!" Emily breaks in, molding the fingers of her free hand into a fist so she can bump it against Lovett's. She wraps Leo's leash around the arm of her metal chair and plops down. "He paid for two full pizza nights, Tommy. That at least deserves a breakfast. Maybe even that bottomless mimosa basket he was talking about in the car."

"I love a mimosa," Hanna's dad says, taking a seat between Hanna and Emily, and across from where Lovett and Jon are seated. "It's such a nice burst of—hon. How do you call it? Not freshness. What am I thinking of?"

"Citrus?" Jon asks. Lovett hasn't spent a lot of time getting to know Hanna's dad, but if the man likes a stiff breakfast booze, they'll get along just fine.

"Is it the bubbles that you like, Dad?" Hanna asks. As Lovett watches she presses her palm to the small of Tommy's back. Her hands are wide, but delicate. It's fascinating to watch Tommy relax right into it.

"It may be the bubbles," her dad says. He still looks considering. 

"They're very crisp," Lovett says. "That's my favorite part, anyway. Wakes a man right up in the morning."

"Yes! That's exactly it. Crisp," Mr. Koch repeats, turning to his wife across the table and beaming. " _Crisp_."

"That's Lovett," Jon says, voice soft, hand dropping down and squeezing Lovett's knee under the table. "He's our token wordsmith."

Lovett has to physically stop himself from jumping. "Right," Lovett agrees, trying to kick Jon's foot as subtly as possible. "Says the man who had the President's ear for nearly a decade."

"Lovett, learn to take a—"

"Hey!" Tommy says. "What the heck. Did you just _kick_ me?"

"No squabbling at the table, please!" Emily says, her bright voice cutting through the noise. Maybe the entire patio doesn't stop talking, but their whole table does, and she laughs, reveling in the attention. "I don't know if we can keep these bozos from talking shop for all of brunch, but we can certainly try. What have you guys been getting up to so far this weekend?"

The question is clearly directed at Hanna's parents, so Lovett takes the opportunity to peer down at his menu, even though he almost always gets the same thing whenever they come here.

"Why did you kick me?" Tommy asks. He hasn't moved any closer, and Lovett's seat is pulled in tight enough to the table that he can't possibly see Jon's hand, but they both tense anyway. 

Jon's fingers curl slowly, tightening over Lovett's knee in his jeans, and it's probably just his fanciful brain playing tricks on his anatomy, but he can feel Jon's heat through the denim, sparking against his skin like a brand. Gross.

"I was aiming for Jon and went in the wrong direction," Lovett says, which is both true and also does him the service of making Jon blush. 

"What," Tommy says, and suddenly the bridge of his nose is turning pink too. "You and Jon just play footsie in public now?"

"You know us," Jon says from his other side. His fingers squeeze again, and Lovett has to chew on his lip to keep from embarrassing himself out loud. "Sometimes you just gotta roughhouse." 

For some reason, that phrase makes Pundit bark from her spot by Lovett's feet, and he says, "That was Leo," without pausing to think of it.

"Oh, that's delightful," Hanna's mom says, beaming at him. "Honey, I didn't know you actually said that kind of thing outside of the podcast."

Now it's Lovett's turn to blush. The press of Jon's fingers turns to a caress, small and deliberate. "Wow," he says, trying to sound normal. What does normal even sound like? Who knows. "I didn't know you guys listened. That's—wow."

"Of course we do!" Hanna's dad says. "I'm sure Hanna gets enough of it at home with that one, but we can't wait for Mondays and Thursdays." There's a bit of a pause, before he says, "Saturday mornings too, of course. I listen to Lovett or Leave It on my way to the shop. You certainly do have a way with words, son."

"Wow," Lovett repeats, pointing toward Hanna and trying to frown. "You have a lot of explaining to do, lady."

Behind his back, he can feel Tommy's hand, and of course it's Tommy's hand, massive and strong, pressing between his shoulder blades. Is it comfort? An admonishment? His face is placid enough, but he's smiling, so that can only mean something good.

"Honestly, Lovett's is the only show I can really listen to," Hanna confesses, winking at him. 

When Tommy says, "Hey!" she laughs at him.

"I mean, and Pod Save the—no, I'm sorry, I can't do it, babe, I'm sorry. Sometimes I listen when you prep for Pod Save the World? Doesn't that count for something?" Hanna grins at her parents and adds, "Sometimes I read the books with him, too, so he's not sitting on the back deck, screaming into the void alone."

"Lucca really helps too," Tommy agrees, and on cue, Lucca barks under the table.

Lovett leans down to scoop Pundit into his lap, dislodging Jon's hand, and presses his face into her fur as a server stops by to take their drink orders. They get two pitchers of mimosas for the table. Lovett peeks over the top of Pundit's head at one of the menus, scanning the options. Jon tips his head in close with Emily, conferring with her, and then tips back toward Lovett with a smile. "You want to get a bunch of things and share them?"

"Small plates, huh," Lovett says, voice light. "You really know your way to a man's heart. What are you thinking?"

"The breakfast sliders come with three, right?" Emily says, leaning over to point at something. "We could do that and the Belgian waffles and something else."

Lovett chews on his lower lip. "Uh, the seasonal scramble, maybe? Oh, wait, but I don't like—"

"Truffle oil," the entire table finishes, or it feels that way, Tommy grinning over his glass of water. Hanna's parents start laughing when Lovett makes a face, dull flush crawling up his neck.

"Look," Lovett says, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Is it a crime to make your dislikes known?"

"You could say we've made a career of it," Jon says, and stretches a proprietary arm over the back of Lovett's chair. It feels less obvious than a hand on his knee, and Lovett's a little more settled now, anyway. It always helps, he thinks distantly, to be seen by the people closest to you.

"We can get it without the truffle oil," Emily says, closing her menu with a decisive snap.

"Do you always split entrees here?" Mrs. Koch asks with interest.

"Lovett likes to try a little bit of everything," Tommy puts in.

"Lovett can speak for himself, thank you," Lovett says crisply, tempering it with a quick smile. "But yes, he's correct. Ronan and I usually go halfsies whenever we come here and he's in town."

"Oh, Ronan," says Hanna's dad. "Is he—you're all going on that big trip to Utah together next week, aren't you?"

Lovett keeps himself carefully loose, but his fingers curl against Pundit's scruff.

"He, ah, had to cancel last minute for work," he says, and shakes his head when Mrs. Koch's expression turns sympathetic, jumps immediately to the same practiced lines: "It's alright. We've been doing this for a long time, you know? I saw him last week, and I'll see him again soon."

"What are your holiday plans?" Jon interjects, smooth and easy, steering the conversation toward less dangerous waters. Always the facilitator, even when he isn't in front of a microphone in the studio or on stage. Sometimes Lovett is grateful for that.

;;

The Kochs are planning to go sailing in the afternoon, catch the last few hours of light on the Marina before the sun sets. Lovett manages to beg off, comfortable and buzzed enough from champagne to say, "I've done enough fifth wheeling today. Boats and I don't mix well, anyway—that's more Tommy's specialty."

Emily and Jon have no such luck, even when Jon mumbles something about _just_ having washed Leo. "Relax," Emily says, and waves as Lovett climbs into his Lyft.

He takes a nap when he gets home without quite meaning to, drowsy from the food and fizzy alcohol. When he wakes up, face pressed into his crumpled comforter, the time on his phone says ten past four, and Pundit's snoozing next to him.

He's not hungry, but when he sits up, it wakes her, and she tilts her head and woofs softly at him. "Alright, alright, honey," he says. In the kitchen, he gets her food down out of the cabinet and shakes out the kibble into her bowl.

He's still not sure if he likes this brand, but Fletcher had recommended it to regulate her poop, so they'd invested, even though designer dog food is expensive, and Fletcher lives too far away to come clear up after her when she has accidents. He reaches for his phone to text Hanna and ask about it, not sure what they've been training Lucca with, but it's not in his pocket where he last remembers it. 

He spends a couple minutes searching. It's not tangled up in the throw, it's not under any of his pillows, not underneath the coffee table, but he knows he had it, because he checked the time.

"Pundit," he says. "Am I losing my mind? Did you eat my phone?"

She woofs at him again, uncurling from her spot on the couch to wander into the kitchen and poke at her dinner. He hears something buzzing under the cushion, digging behind to find where it's managed to wedge itself.

"Did you shove my phone away, you beast?" he asks, but obviously, being a dog, she can't answer him. "One day we're going to be able to communicate. I'm talking ESP. I'm talking ASL. I'm talking the works."

She tilts her head at him, eyes big and imploring, almost like she can understand, but finds him mostly uninteresting. It occurs to him that he's having a one-sided conversation with his dog about one-sided conversations and stops himself mid-rant, fishing in the crack between the padding and the springs and dragging it out.

There's a text from Ronan, a picture of the spread from a meal with his editor, and another with Spencer's hangdog face standing next to the frozen foods section at Ralph's. Beneath the selfie, he's written _where the heck did Favreau find bake/break snickerdoodles?_

It figures that this is the part of their alibi Spencer would have questions about. Of course he's thinking with his stomach.

 _don't know_ , Lovett sends back, which is at least accurate. He also has no clue if such a product even exists. He is certainly not asking.

 _Well, can you ask him? I'm gonna need a hobby while you're out of town._

_No_ , Lovett responds, flipping on the TV, and ignoring his phone. Considering how many options he has, how many things there are available to stream, or even through his cable package, he should probably pick something new, but he puts on Comedians in Cars with Coffee because it's funny, and he's watched it enough that he doesn't even have to think about it.

He mostly zones out. Eventually, Pundit comes back into the room, jumping onto the couch and butting her head against his arm until he lifts it and drapes it across her back. "Hi, honey," he says. 

She woofs.

On the coffee table, his phone is buzzing at a pretty consistent clip, but he's comfortable, and Pundit is a warm, solid presence against his side. If the world is ending, if their alien overlords are finally making themselves known, this is a pretty good way to go, he thinks. It could be worse.

He must fall back asleep again, because he startles awake to a sound at the door. Usually people text before they drop by. Or they don't drop by at all, which is honestly the method he prefers. By text, he can dissuade unwanted guests. The knocking persists, and Lovett pushes up to his feet, knuckling sleep out of his eyes and dragging himself through. 

"Spencer," he says, opening the door without bothering to look through the window. "I swear to God. I don't know where Favs got the cookies. You need to be less literal."

It's not Spencer at the door. Lovett should have guessed. He's mussed, still in the clothes he wore earlier, askew from two naps and cuddling with the dog, and his hair—he doesn't even want to think about it, has to keep his fingers still by his sides to keep from reaching up to try and fluff out his curls.

"Jon," he mumbles. Of course it's Jon, handsome and put-together and holding a bag of takeout. "Did we have a—we didn't talk about you coming by, did we?"

"Nah," Jon says. He's more tan than he had been that morning, always picking up sunlight like a duck to water, and he's grinning, which Lovett finds vaguely disarming. Wars have been fought and lost over a smile like that. "Em and I figured you'd want some dinner, so I thought I'd come feed you."

He sways in, the fingers of his free hand brushing Lovett's arm, and that's enough. It's too much, maybe. Lovett can feel his skin starting to explode with goosebumps.

"She didn't want to come hang out?" he tries, voice admirably even.

Jon raises his eyebrows. "She didn't think you'd be into that tonight," he says, and his hand is cupping Lovett's elbow now, holding it where the sleeve of Lovett's henley is pushed up. Jon's thumb digs a little deeper, and even as Lovett watches, the expression on his face ripples towards something more intentional. Something unmistakable.

When Jon said this morning that he'd wanted to do this again—when Emily had given her, her _blessing_ —Lovett hadn't considered that it might happen so soon. Hadn't allowed himself to even entertain the idea. He hadn't known what to think, really, still too caught up in the spiral of his own malcontent anxieties.

"Are you insatiable?" he demands, frowning up at the quirk of Jon's mouth. "That's the real reason Emily sent you over here, isn't it? She can't keep up with your. With your libido, so I'm supposed to help. Maybe we could, uh, create a whole Google calendar, coordinate our schedules—"

"Please shut up, Lovett," Jon says, but he's laughing as he leans into Lovett's space. "Didn't we already go over this?" He tucks his nose against Lovett's neck, inhales slowly. It's impossible for Lovett not to breathe in, too; Jon smells faintly of the ocean and beer. "That's not what this is."

Lovett swallows. "What is it, then?"

Jon pulls back to look at him again, eyes wide and searching. "Why do you always ask questions you already know the answers to?"

"You think it's charming," Lovett says, in lieu of a real response. He snatches the plastic bag dangling from Jon's hand and steps aside to let him in the house. "What did you get?"

"Poke from the good place," Jon says. He follows Lovett into the living room. Pundit's transferred herself to the rug, tongue lolling out of her mouth as she yawns, and he bends down to ruffle the fur beneath her chin.

Lovett sinks down in front of the couch, pulls a clear takeout bowl out of the bag and pops it open. Snaps the single-use chopsticks in half. He tries not to think about climbing into Jon's lap and kissing him here during the early hours of Friday morning when all of this began, but that's mostly a lost cause at this point.

On the coffee table, his phone buzzes again. He picks it up, eyes Jon as he uncurls from the floor to take a seat next to him. "How was the boat?" he asks, plucking a piece of salmon from his bowl and popping it into his mouth.

"Good," Jon says, rubbing at his chin. "It was warmer on the water than we were expecting, which was nice."

"California's made you soft," he says, and Jon rolls his eyes. Lovett takes a bigger bite of food, chewing thoughtfully, and navigates to his messages. _Jon's over again_ , he types out, slow and deliberate. It doesn't make him feel quite as off-balance as it did on Friday night, but the sensation is still a strange one. "I'm telling Ronan you're here," he says without looking up.

It takes him a moment, but when he does manage to lift his head again, Jon's beaming. "I like that," he says simply.

"It's not for you to like," Lovett snaps back, aware of the prickliness pouring off him as Ronan immediately responds with a thumbs up emoji and _Hot. Send nudes._

Jon looks startled, but he doesn't move away. "What?"

Lovett takes a breath and thinks: there's only so much of a brat you can be before you worry about alienating the hot best friend you're sleeping with. He shows Jon his phone screen and watches him laugh.

"You know I've never done that?" Jon says, reaching out to run his fingers through the small hairs at the back of Lovett's neck.

"Never done what?" he asks, even though he mostly knows, feeling it as Jon shifts next to him.

"Sent nudes," Jon says, on a laugh. "Dick pics. I've definitely never sent a dick pic—unless. I mean, I have sent photos of Dick Cheney."

What a stupid thing to laugh at. A stupid thing for Jon to say, unselfconscious and easy. Lovett drags his phone up and sends, _We would, but Jon is a prude._

"I have," Lovett says, trying to hold himself together. "Suddenly, so many questions about your sex life. Look at my restraint. Appreciate it. This will probably never happen again."

Jon says, "I do really appreciate that, Lovett," but not much else, stretching out and making himself comfortable on the couch. 

It's an odd and lovely place to be, caught between Jon's easy, warm acceptance and the sharp sting of pride at the string of laugh-crying emojis Ronan sends back. Jon could leave any time. They both could, but they haven't yet, and there's something lovely about that, too. 

"This is good," Lovett says, gesturing with a chopstick, shoulders relaxing.

"Yeah." Jon digs into his own meal. He's got his eyes trained to the TV, laughing quietly as Jerry and Steve Martin bicker on screen. After a while, he says, "This is a really funny one," he says.

"I've seen it before," Lovett says inanely.

"Yeah, me too." 

They've watched this show together before, five, ten times, on in the background when Jon and Emily were just across the street, when doing the incorporation paperwork was better with a soundtrack of conversation and jokes than it would have been with silence.

"Look," Lovett says, because he doesn't know how to turn off his mouth. "Are you sure this is what you want? We could just… watch the show. Walk the dog. Not—" he says, when he sees Jon's twitching lips. "Not like that, you pervert, Jesus."

Jon shrugs. "I don't know what about me telling you this morning in front of my wife—"

"Your wife," Lovett echoes, because he has to pin it down. Has to keep reminding himself. It would be so easy to get swept up in Jon's casual affection. The awful way his nose scrunches when he really laughs and can't help it, the subtle, lingering scent of his sandalwood aftershave. 

"Yeah, Lovett," Jon says, sounding sort of exasperated, but mostly amused. When Lovett peeks up at him, he's not smiling, but his eyes are—fuck. His eyes are as warm as ever. "I told you, man. Whatever you want. However far you want to go. I'm with you. We can make it work."

Lovett drops his container on the coffee table and turning to face Jon head-on and swinging his knees up, curling his arms around them. "Okay," he says. "I want to be on record as thinking this is stupid, but at least you and Emily seem to also be part of this bad idea float."

Jon shrugs. He sets down his food too, relaxing his posture once he sits back and rolling his head against the couch cushions so that their gazes can meet and catch. "Em thinks it's great," he says. "Hot."

"What," Lovett blurts before he can stop himself. " _What_?"

It's weird to watch Jon blush, but the pink that spreads across his cheeks seems less like embarrassment and more like satisfaction.

"I didn't, ah," he says, clearing his throat, and dropping his hands suspiciously to his lap. "I didn't give her the details, if that's what you're asking. She…" he trails off, mumbling something Lovett can't hear under his breath.

"She what?" Lovett asks, even though he's isn't sure he wants to know.

Jon shrugs. "Yesterday she came up with some, uh, fantasies all on her own. It was good. She's fine with it, Lovett. More than. You know—we've done this with Hanna and Tommy, and lived to tell the tale. It's no big deal."

It is a big deal, but Lovett doesn't say so, shaking his head even as he can feel a smile spreading out across his mouth, unstoppable. He's moving before he can convince himself not to, hand on Jon's arm as he swings himself up and into Jon's lap.

"Well," Jon says. He's still slumped, but he doesn't hesitate to bring both hands to Lovett's waist, sliding under his t-shirt. "This is a nice surprise."

"God, why are you such a dork?" Lovett says, and it's the last thing either of them says for a while. Either Jon surges up, or he moves down. One second, they're breathing independently, and the next, their mouths are moving together, and it's familiar in a way that's not, that's still pretty shocking, actually. It's Jon he's kissing. Jon whose hands are squeezing softly against his hips. 

Jon has a nice mouth, soft lips, and Lovett hears a noise, sharp and high, before realizing it's him, groaning out loud, because one of Jon's hands has fallen down between them, squeezing his dick through his jeans like he just can't help it.

" _Jon_ ," he groans, rutting into it shamelessly. "Jon."

"I've got you," Jon whispers, but something in Lovett's frantic, overworked brain won't let him give into it just yet.

"Jon," he groans again, pulling back enough that they're no longer kissing, even though Jon's hand is still—even though their hips are still pressed tightly against each other.

"Lovett," Jon says on a laugh, shifting up enough so that he can lean in and graze his teeth along Lovett's neck. It's a smooth move, well-practiced by the feel of it, and it's exactly the opposite of what Lovett wants. 

"What do you want?" Lovett asks. Watching Jon throw his head back and laugh isn't anything new. Hell, watching Jon throw his head back and laugh isn't even new to this scenario. Lovett hasn't had a lot of time to comb over the other night, but they'd laughed a lot then, too. Sometimes, Jon smiles at him like he's powerless against it. It's not a feeling Lovett likes to think about too much.

"Are we going to go through this every time I come over here?" Jon asks. He still has a hand on Lovett's hip, fingers spread wide under the thin, worn cotton of his shirt. 

"Maybe I wasn't kidding about that Google calendar," Lovett says. "That way I'll know when to expect you and can practice my pleasantness. Maybe in a mirror."

It's not exactly a surprise when Jon laughs again, but it is a surprise when Jon tips them over, angling Lovett gently so that he falls on his back, their legs tangled and hips slotting together as Jon shifts himself and looms above him.

"There are plenty of things I'd like to see you do in a mirror," Jon says, rolling his hips down as he speaks. His voice has got that whispery tone to it again, the one it gets when he feels something deeply and just can't quite help it. Lovett closes his eyes in an effort to steel himself, but it doesn't do him any good. "But mostly I just want you. However I can get you. Above me, around me, below me..." 

He opens his mouth like he's going to add more, and maybe he is, but suddenly, Lovett can't bear to hear the rest. There's too much genuine sweetness in Jon's tone, too much of exactly what Lovett was afraid of, when he worried about what kind of terrible mistake this would shake out to be.

"When you say below," he interrupts, peeking up at Jon through his lashes, "how low do you want me to go?" 

He's good at this part, being suggestive, playing coy, but maybe that was because of the unshakable certainty he had that it would never go anywhere. It feels different now, like he's walking through quicksand. Like the ground could drop beneath him at any moment, swallow him whole.

"Are you asking if I want your mouth on me?" Jon asks. He's grinning like a fool. "I didn't know that was on the table, Jon."

Maybe it shouldn't be. Lovett takes a breath and tries to remember if Ronan has ever—if they've ever talked about what happens in the lead up to the actual sex. The foreplay. They've talked about everything, but in this moment, with Jon's weight heavy against him, it's hard to remember.

"Yes," Lovett says. "Yes. I—" _want to_. "Yes. Do you want that? I've been thinking about it."

Jon's hips stutter, and he breathes deeply. Carefully. "Yeah," he says, voice scraped raw. "Yeah. Please."

"Okay," Lovett says. When he pushes at Jon's shoulder, Jon leans up and back, hands brushing down Lovett's thighs, his knees. From the floor, Pundit stirs sleepily, letting out a quiet yowl. Lovett sits up, rubbing his knuckles against his eyes. "We should probably," he tells Jon, and gestures somewhere over the back of the couch, toward the bedroom, laughing a little. "Sorry, Pundit. Sexiled again."

"Yeah, that's a phrase she definitely understands," Jon says, as Lovett pockets his phone. He leans his arm around Lovett's waist once they're both standing and tugs him in again. This kiss isn't as soft as the rest of them have been. Jon is _gasping_ against his mouth.

"Wow, you really want that blowjob, huh?" Lovett asks, pulling back to exhale. 

"I," Jon says, and then he laughs, shaking his head in apparent disbelief. "Yes," he says. "I dream about your mouth on me."

"Jesus," Lovett says. He turns decisively toward his room so he won't have to look at Jon's face for at least a little while. "You can't just say things like that."

"Can't I?" Jon says. "It's the truth." 

He isn't crowded quite as close behind Lovett as he was on Friday night, but a giddy sense of familiarity still bubbles up in his chest as they step through the door. Lovett pushes his knuckles against his eyes again, trying to shake the flutter of nerves in his stomach. It's hard to imagine that he'll ever get used to this—that it'll happen often enough for there to be something to get used to. He shouldn't get too comfortable. 

Once could've been a fluke; this, the second time, could just be a coincidence. The third time—he's not going to think about a third time.

 _Don't count your chickens, Jon_ , he thinks, stern. _One fucking thing at a time._ He stops short at the foot of the bed, as messy and unmade as he'd left it this morning, and then Jon's hands are on him again, falling to his hips, turning him around.

Jon's mouth is hanging half open, like he's got something else to say. Lovett leans up to kiss him before he can, trailing one hand down to grope Jon through his jeans. He smiles when Jon groans, hips canting up against Lovett's palm, and then he pushes Jon back against the bed.

Well—it's more like—Jon lets himself be pushed, landing on the mattress with a little bounce, long legs stretched out. He props himself up on his elbows, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Oh, is that how it's going to be?"

"You bet," Lovett says, and climbs up to settle in between Jon's thighs. For a minute, he just looks, sweeps his eyes from the open triangle of Jon's shirt collar down to where he's visibly hard inside his jeans. Jon, to his credit, doesn't look away or speak. He keeps his hands to himself. Waits.

The last time Lovett was in a position like this—hovering in bed over a beautiful man waiting for him to do something—was last weekend, when Ronan was in town for his birthday karaoke party with Shannon and Juliet. That night had ended very differently; Lovett hadn't been able to find his keys, so Ronan let them in the house with the spares, tugged him into the bedroom, got his hands underneath Lovett's stormtrooper onesie and pulled him down with the type of laser-sharp intensity borne from not having seen your partner in far too long. They hadn't left the bed until both of them were sweaty and sated, until Lovett had dragged his lips across Ronan's mouth and throat and chin and chest enough times that Ronan's entire body was pink, until Lovett had pushed his fingers and his tongue and his dick flush inside him, and then, in the morning, woken up to Ronan's face pressed against his neck.

Barely a week ago, and it already seems like a lifetime's passed between then and now. In a moment like this, Lovett feels like he's about to explode from everything he's trying to keep in, the enormity of all the things that he wants, struggling to piece them together. He doesn't know how anyone does it.

"Lovett," Jon says, and it takes him a minute to pull back into himself. Lovett doesn't know what his face is doing, but it must be something spectacular, if the expression on Jon's is anything to go by. "You know we really don't have to, right? If it's too much, you can just—you can tell me."

"Isn't that my line?" Lovett says, tilting his head. He lets one of his hands fall to Jon's crotch again, rubbing Jon through his jeans, as Jon lets out a quiet sigh. "I want to," he says, this dance of concession and evasion falling away for just a moment so he can speak his truth. A truth. _One thing at a time._

Jon sucks in a breath as Lovett pops the button of his jeans open, pulls the zipper down. This he knows how to do, hands tugging Jon's erection through the slit of his boxer-briefs with practiced ease.

"Horizontal quick-draw fly," Lovett says in his best announcer voice, and Jon laughs with his entire body, helpless.

"You're awful," Jon says, but the second word cracks clean in half as Lovett shifts down, legs folded beneath him, and wraps his fingers around the base of Jon's dick.

"Too bad this specific endorsement is too raunchy to opine about on the air," Lovett murmurs. He exhales lightly against the tip, and Jon's hips twitch, hands twisting restlessly in the sheets.

"Like that's ever stopped you before."

Lovett raises his eyebrows. "I'd like to state for the record that I do actually hold back quite a lot," he says, and jacks him dry, once, twice, before letting go to lick his palm.

Jon lets out a little punched-out noise. "If this is you holding back, I'd hate to see you out of control."

If there's a right way to respond to that, Lovett doesn't know it. Instead, he licks his lips, wetting his mouth, and moves down so he can nose against the base of Jon's dick. "It figures that your dick would be as good-looking as the rest of you," he grumbles, and feels it more than he hears it, when Jon laughs. 

"I—I work at it?" Jon gasps ridiculously. Lovett watches his throat move as he swallows, hears him gasp as Lovett jacks him easily, getting him wet and ready.

"Do you want it?" he asks. The sounds out of his mouth don't even sound like they belong to him. He _is_ out of control, even if he can manage to hide the tremors in his fingers and the shake in his chest.

"It's," Jon whispers, reaching out to press the edge of his thumb to the corner of Lovett's lip. "You know I do."

The tease, building up the tension, has always been Lovett's favorite part, and there's something comfortable too, in the stretch of sinking down and humming in anticipation as he takes Jon's dick all the way down to the root. He's not too thick, but he is long, and Lovett can't help that feeling of deja vu. Jon has been inside him before, and now he is again.

"You look so good," Jon whispers. His lifts his hand, fingers hovering by Lovett's ear, but he doesn't push or pull or tug. 

Lovett wants to pull off and say, _you can_ , but he doesn't. Instead, he hollows his cheeks as he sucks, the sounds wild and loud, and then pulls back so that it's just the silky, throbbing head in his mouth. Above him, Jon is groaning, stuttering words Lovett can only just grasp if he listens hard enough. The sounds his own mouth is making are loud on their own. When he pulls off entirely, laying his tongue flat against Jon's slit, they both gasp, Lovett's dick twitching at the salty taste of precome. He opens his throat as he sinks back down again, holding the wings of Jon's hips so Jon won't buck up and choke him. He could, Lovett thinks wildly. Jon could do anything he wanted right now, and Lovett would let him.

"Lovett," Jon is nearly silent above him, fists clenching against the wrinkled sheets. "Lovett, you have to. You have to stop if you want me to. Fuck. Babe. Baby." The endearments makes heat crawl up Lovett's neck, makes it feel like his brain's going to leak out of his ears, Jesus. "You have to pull off if you want me to fuck you tonight."

Jon's flush is an angry red, and Lovett thinks about taking him again, deep inside of him. He pulls up, licking his lips, licking over the head obscenely, licking over the thick vein on the underside. "Does it feel good? Jon? Does it?"

"Fuck," Jon repeats, Lovett's fingers curled around the base. "Yeah, yes—God, your mouth."

Lovett smirks, and says, "I've been told," and then drops back down, sucking hard enough to make his eyes water as Jon's cock hits the back of his throat.

"I'm gonna—I'm coming," Jon whispers. 

He lets his thumb drop down, pressing against the corner of Lovett's mouth again, and Lovett groans and grinds his hips against the mattress, staying where he is, letting his throat stay as open as he can manage it. 

"Holy fucking shit," Jon says after a while. "I can't believe you did that." He sounds dazed, and his hand is still cradling Lovett's face when he finally draws back, a string of come connecting his lower lip to Jon's softening cock for a moment before he wipes it away. "How can I—how do you want to—" He swallows thickly, glancing down at Lovett's crotch, his erection pushing hard against his jeans. "How can I help you?"

Typical, that Jon would still be thinking about him at a time like this. 

"Do you need fingers? Or, uh." Jon swallows again. Lovett watches the clench and release of his throat. "You said, before, that you had—stuff that you used on yourself."

Lovett closes his eyes for a moment. Of course Jon would remember. Of course it would occur to Jon that even if he couldn't, with his dick, that there was another way. "Yeah," he says, and his voice comes out raspy and fractured, like a firecracker. "Let me, um. I can go get it."

He pushes off the bed, walks over to the dresser in a twitchy haze and reaches inside it to retrieve the box of toys that lives in the third drawer. When he turns back around, Jon's kicked his pants off, has already fished Lovett's lube from the bedside cabinet.

Jon's always been eager to please. Lovett shouldn't have expected anything else.

Lovett lifts the lid off the box as he slides back onto the bed, one leg tucked beneath him, and pulls one of the dildos out, a dark purple one with a knob at the base. "So, Jonathan," he says, trying to pitch his voice like he's addressing a seminar, or an intern briefing, "this is a—"

Jon rolls his eyes. "I know what a dildo is, thank you," he says, ducking in to press a kiss to Lovett's temple before sitting back on his haunches. "I think Emily could give you a run for your money."

"Look," Lovett says huffily, shaking his head. "I would never claim to be a connoisseur of heterosexual sex, but I'm pretty sure butt stuff is different from—from, you know. Silicone dicks in vaginas."

Jon goes even pinker, which would be something in and of itself, but he's maintaining eye-contact too, not backing down, not for a second. "I never said I wasn't intimately acquainted with her collection."

"Did she," Lovett stalls, trying to fight his own blush and failing. "Wait. She's fucked you? Is that what you're telling me?"

The room is so, so quiet. He tries to listen for Pundit's household noises in the living room, but even those have subsided. It feels like they're all alone in the world, like the next words out of Jon's mouth have the capacity to change everything. Fuck.

"Seems to me like you're the one telling it," Jon says, which would be _cool_ —who doesn't appreciate a little deflection nowadays?—but he's cut his eyes away, finally, head ducked against his arm like he's embarrassed. As if the image of him spreading himself open isn't overwhelming and sexy.

"Jon," Lovett says. Thinks he says. Maybe he's begging. Do they have to talk about this? Maybe not. Maybe he's prying into business that doesn't belong to him. It wouldn't be the first time.

"Yeah," Jon whispers. "Yeah, she, ah. She's fucked me before. With a strap-on—so I know how it works." The corner of his mouth lifts. "Butt stuff, as you so eloquently put it."

"Right," Lovett says, swallowing hard. It's very difficult not to imagine it in his mind's eye, Emily sliding her fingers into Jon, pushing into him from behind. He has to reach down with his free hand and adjust himself in his pants. "That's. Wow. Okay."

Jon's swallowing too, eyes wide, when Lovett's gathered the strength to look at him again. "You think my wife fucking me is hot?" he asks, hesitant. "I thought, um. You know. You said women being involved hadn't done it for you. You know. With Ronan."

That's true. Or, true enough. Watching Shannon fuck Ronan had been a revelation. Having Shannon try and fuck him, even with Ronan's mouth on his dick, his fingers helping the stretch, was something else entirely.

"It's different, when I imagine myself doing it," Lovett says, or maybe it's different because it's Emily, which feels too new and raw to admit out loud right now. Thinking about Jon taking it from her isn't something he would have ever considered before; he has to sit with it for longer.

"That makes sense," Jon says, voice gentle.

Lovett sighs and claps his hand together, breaking through the tension. Jon's eyes are still on his mouth, but there are worse things. "Anyway, aren't we here to cater to my urges? Focus."

Jon laughs, face shining. "Yeah, Lovett, you got it." He reaches for the dildo still clasped loosely in Lovett's hand. "Here. Let me."

It's easy, is the thing. Too easy for Lovett to hand the reins over to Jon, too easy to let him tug Lovett's jeans and underwear off, too easy to spread his legs and allow Jon to slide one slick finger inside him, two, three. Too easy to sink into the soft murmur of Jon's voice, the press of his mouth. Lovett keeps thinking, somewhere in the back of his mind, that this should be harder.

 _Anyone ever tell you that you think too much?_ comes Ronan's voice again, faint and far off, and—it's not like Lovett didn't know, going into this, that all of it would be so intimate that it felt like his insides were being scraped out bit by bit, but that doesn't make it any less shocking.

"You've been quiet," Jon says, pulling back to look at Lovett even as his fingers twist in a little deeper, deep enough that Lovett hisses and arches into it. "That's not like you."

"Just thinking," Lovett says, which is close enough to the truth.

Jon's nose scrunches. "I'm not doing my job right, then," he says, and Lovett can't help the bereft noise that drops out of his mouth when Jon pulls his fingers out entirely.

It's a strange turn-on, watching Jon pour lube out over the dildo and slick it up with his palm, and stranger still that Lovett's hand isn't the one curled at the flared base of the toy as Jon lines it up, knees brushing against Lovett's thighs. "Alright?" he asks, low and quiet, and Lovett says, "Please, please," voice cracking. 

Sometimes Lovett feels like he doesn't know how to do anything but take. Maybe that's why all of this is coming so easy, maybe it's just the same pattern he's been following for years—and then Jon's nudging the dildo all the way in, down to the hilt, and Lovett can't breathe anymore, let alone think.

"Look at you," Jon says, and he sounds awed. It's too much and not enough all at once, and Lovett makes a desperate, keening sound, squirming under Jon's heavy gaze. "Do you want—what do you want?"

"Just," Lovett says, panting, and lifts his legs so he can hook his calves over Jon's shoulders for the better angle. Jon turns so he can press an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of Lovett's knee, and that's—fuck, if he keeps doing that, Lovett may explode. "Just fuck me, okay? As hard as you can. Promise. I promise I can take it."

"Okay," Jon says, voice wavering. He pulls the dildo out and slides it back in, tentative at first and then with more verve as Lovett arches into it, sighing.

Lovett's dick feels so hard against his stomach that it's almost painful, leaking all over his skin. "Fuck, that's it," he groans, fingers clutching at the sheets, and he tries to turn his face into the pillows, but Jon doesn't let him, reaches up with shaking fingers to keep him looking up. "Faster, come on," he murmurs, words slurred like he's still tipsy from all the mimosas he'd had that morning.

It's not the same as Jon's dick, not the same as Friday, but Jon keeps staring at Lovett like he's unbelievable, and the thought rises unbidden, floating to the front of his mind without Lovett's permission: if this is how Jon looks at all the people he fucks, it's a wonder Emily ever lets him out of bed.

Lovett comes clenched hard around the dildo, before he can get a word out edgewise, and Jon ducks in to kiss him, folding him almost in half. Lovett had forgotten he could bend this way, and maybe he'll have more regrets about it in the morning, but right now he feels wonderful, filled up and pressed down into the mattress, tingling from head to toe.

Jon pulls away eventually, says with an air of regret, "It's too bad I can't get it up again," and Lovett laughs, scraping a hand over his eyes. When he glances down, the front of Jon's henley is stained with jizz.

"Oh, your shirt," Lovett mumbles, apologetic about more than just the fucking shirt. Jon shakes his head, strips it off, and dumps it over the side of the bed. "I'm sorry."

"You're fine," Jon says, and that's probably about more than just the fucking shirt, too, but Lovett's honestly too tired to think about it anymore.

;;

Lovett wakes up to noise. An alarm, maybe. There's a strap across his chest—were they driving somewhere? The car isn't moving. Is it off? The noise is loud, and bits of sun are peeking through the blackout curtains. In the house, then. 

He turns his head, not entirely surprised to be faced with Jon's slack and sleeping features. He's curled sideways, tucked around Lovett in the kind of hug Lovett usually doesn't like to permit.

It figures Jon would be a sleep cuddler. It figures he'd be a perfect sleeper, too, no snores, just deep, even breathing that slides out of his mouth on every other breath. He's beautiful. He should be carved into marble and worshipped in town squares.

"You know, I can feel you staring at me," Jon says, not opening his eyes. 

Lovett freezes, which is stupid, because Jon can feel him, as tightly as they are pressed together. "Sorry," he mumbles. "I woke up being squished to death. I was just sitting here trying to figure out what the etiquette is for kicking a—an interloper from my bed."

"An interloper, huh?" Jon says, snuggling impossibly closer, lips drifting down Lovett's neck like a promise. Even more promising is the hand that slides down Lovett's belly, palm riding the ridge of his swiftly hardening dick. 

"Fuck," Lovett groans, and Jon kisses his neck again, nipping his ear, and tugging the lobe with his teeth. Ears have never been one of his erogenous zones, but Lovett's breath catches anyway.

"I'd like to," Jon says, so soft that Lovett isn't sure he's actually heard it at all. "Do we have time for that? I would apologize for last night, but that was one of the hottest things I've ever seen." 

"One of the _hottest_ —" He can't wrap his mind around it. "You're so full of shit," he says, turning over fast and knocking Jon flat on his back.

"I'm not!" Jon says, but he's laughing as Lovett pins both his wrists down against the mattress. "You have no idea how hot you are, Jon."

Lovett rolls his eyes, and then rolls his hips down, hard and getting harder, gratified when he feels how hard Jon is too. 

"You have to stop," he groans, leaning down to bite Jon's plush bottom lip. "I don't want to hear it." 

"You sure about that?" Jon asks, and he's still laughing, but at least he's straining now, trying to get his wrists out of Lovett's hold. Trying to buck him off. Good. Let him try.

"No," Lovett says eventually, when Jon pushes up and their mouths collide. "It's too much sometimes. I have seen the people you hook up with—fuck, I have seen the people you _marry_. Stop patronizing me." 

Jon stops struggling. "Lovett, no. Is that what you think? I wouldn't."

"I know," Lovett says, because he does. For all of Jon's faults, cruelty has never been one of them. "I know, okay. You wouldn't be here if you didn't want to. Against all odds, you find me attractive. I know all that, but you need to stop trying to… trying to woo me."

Jon flinches, swallows hard and says, "Okay. Okay. No wooing. You got it. Do you still want me to—to fuck you, though?"

"Oh my god, now which one of us is the insecure mess? Can't even finish a sentence." 

" _Lovett_."

This is the first time since they started this whole insane business that Lovett has felt even remotely in control. Finally. 

"I want you to know how good this feels," he says on a laugh, and Jon laughs too, flicking his tongue out to wet his lips again. 

"What?" Jon asks. "Holding me captive? Being smug?" 

"Oh my god," Lovett groans. "Both. Captive. Wow. Wow. What a new crop of fantasies you've opened up for me. Captive!"

"Shut up," Jon says, grinning into the kiss when Lovett leans back down to give it. "Do you want to, though? Um."

"Obviously," Lovett says, rolling his hips down again for fun, because he can. Because Jon is so beautifully responsive when he does. "Let me just check the time, and then yeah, I want you to fuck me. As long as this fever dream lasts, I'm going to take advantage."

Jon's laughing when Lovett leans over to dig through the sheets, his big hands balanced on Lovett's hips. Lovett's jeans from the previous day have somehow ended up half-squashed between his pillow and the headboard. The brick of his phone is lodged in one of the pockets.

The battery's low when he pulls it out, and then Lovett clocks the time—9:35—and the string of notifications on his lock screen, and says, "Oh, shit."

"What?"

"We're running late," Lovett says, and pulls off Jon with some effort. "Super late, _shit_." It isn't quite as much of a bucket of cold water as it probably should be; after all, Lovett hasn't cared about the appearance of professionalism since he left the White House ( _Did you really even care about it back then?_ the voice in his head that sounds distressingly like Tommy puts in).

Still, it's more than a little mortifying, the idea that this, whatever this is that's happening, has derailed his life so much that he can't even make it into the office by his latest alarm. As Lovett pulls himself to his feet, Jon sits up in bed, scanning the ground for his clothes. "Shit, my shirt," he says, and Lovett yanks one of his drawers open and tosses a passable tee in Jon's face.

"Just wear that, okay?" Lovett says, swaying in place, shivering at the ache in his lower back. "I'm gonna go hop in the shower. Can you find Pundit?"

"Yeah," Jon says, pulling Lovett's shirt over his head. Lovett goes.

There's no time to sync up again before they have to hustle out of the house. "I can drive us both," Jon says, ushering Pundit into the back seat of the Audi, and Lovett wants to protest, but he knows street parking is shit at this time of day, and odds are better with just one car. "I texted Tommy that we're on our way. It's fine, we aren't supposed to record until eleven, anyway."

 _It's fine_ , Lovett repeats in his head like a mantra the entire drive to the office. It's only a five-minute drive—he and Pundit have made the walk in twenty minutes before—but Lovett feels unsettled as they take the stairs up, like he's been caught out. They've carpooled enough times that no one is going to think twice about it. Jon's wearing a striped shirt that's definitely a little too short in the torso for him, but they've shared clothes before too. It's fine.

The first thing Tommy says when they walk in is, "What the fuck?"

Corinne looks up from her workstation and does a minor double-take before hiding a smile behind her hand. "Morning, guys," she says. "Did one of you lose a bet?" 

"Yes," Jon says. "Obviously me." He tugs idly at the hem of his shirt as he slides around to his own seat. It's Lovett's turn to move into the room, but he feels rooted entirely to his spot by the door, halfway between their desks and the kitchen. 

"Is there coffee?" he asks. 

"Interns are doing a run," Elijah says from behind him. He's sucking down a Big Gulp, brows raised as he looks Lovett over. "This is late, even for you, huh?"

"I'm on time all the time," Lovett says. As if on cue, Jon laughs, indulgent without even trying. It makes Lovett's skin prickle, but he doesn't let himself think too hard on it. 

No one knows about them. Even looking at Jon in his clothes—in his _clothes_ , God—no one would be able to tell that they've spent a significant portion of the weekend mostly undressed and getting off with one another. Lovett has showered every bit of evidence off his skin, out of his body, even if he can still feel the phantom ache and pull in his muscles. 

"Hey," Tommy says from behind him. He's not hovering, exactly, but the frown line between his eyebrows is out in full force. "You want to go for a walk? I kind of need some air before we record."

"Are you coming down with something?" Mukta asks. "Don't breathe on the mics."

Tommy rolls his eyes and says, "Gee, thanks," but he's smiling. Doesn't look too pissed off at all. 

Every instinct Lovett has is screaming for him to say no, he says, "Yeah, why not?"

"Anybody else want something from outside?" Tommy asks the office at large.

"Are you sure you don't want me to just—" Corinne cuts Elisa off with a kick to the ankle. Lovett watches it happen and still can't really believe what he's seeing. Corrine hisses something across her work table, too, but he can't catch it over the other hubbub in the room. It's just as well. 

"Hey," Tommy says as Lovett digs through his bag for his wallet. "Have you picked up your yankee swap thing yet? I walked through the Grove forever after we got back last night and couldn't find a fucking thing."

"I," Lovett says, swallowing around nothing. _Lie_ , his brain screams. _Lie. Lie_. "I went to Target at like, 10pm to try and find something good. No luck." 

Tommy's gaze is steady as he says, "Should we try and grab something now? Two heads are often better than one, yeah?"

"Guess today's going to be pretty loose, huh?" Jon asks from behind them.

"Guess so," Lovett says, shoving his wallet in his pocket, and whistling for Pundit to stay when she starts to follow him back to the door. "We can always start our hunt across the street," Lovett says, watching as Tommy's face goes pink as he tries not to laugh. 

"What, you mean the lingerie place? I can't confirm without reading the HR guidelines, but I'm pretty sure that's some kind of workplace harassment, Lovett," Elijah says. 

Lovett laughs along with everyone else, and says, "Oh no! Ronan will be so disappointed in me."

"Can't have that," Tommy agrees, and then they're out of the office, Pundit's soft barks following them down the stairwell.

Tommy doesn't push immediately, even after they've strolled onto the street and turned toward the cafe just up the road, which is something. It gives Lovett a little bit of time to try to gather himself after the whirlwind between waking up and getting here.

His phone buzzes as they step into the cafe, but before he can pull it out, Tommy says, "Lovett," his tenor a shade testier than it had been upstairs.

"I know," Lovett says, exhaling, and smiles at the cashier behind the counter. He hasn't had time to think about this moment much at all, let alone prepare for it; it's hard to figure out where to even start.

They put in their coffee orders and sit down at one of the small tables to wait. Tommy's eyebrows look like they've risen permanently into his hairline. Lovett can't really blame him. "What's going on with you?" Tommy asks, lips quirking. "We never talk anymore."

Lovett snorts, scrubbing a hand across his mouth. This is so crazy. All of it is so crazy, concentric circles of craziness radiating outward, starting from Ronan's sweet, impassioned treatise that Lovett should get to have whatever he wants, through the past three days of navigating what that might look like with Jon and Emily, and ending here, sitting in a cafe at 10 in the morning on a workday, trying to figure out how to tell one of his best friends and business partners that he's been fucking the other one.

More than fucking, probably, but he's been trying very hard not to dwell on that part. Now doesn't seem like a great time to start.

"I don't think I can do this right now," Lovett mumbles, and shakes his head quickly when Tommy opens his mouth like he's going to argue. "I don't mean—not ever. Just, it's Monday, and Jon and I just." He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, chews on it for a moment. "It's been a very weird weekend. I haven't really had time to process it." Lovett props his chin on one hand and deflates a little, watching as Tommy slumps out of his perfect posture to peer at him, intent. "I'm not asking you to let me off the hook, okay? I do have to talk about this with you. It's important. Just not right this second."

Tommy tilts his head, considering. "You weren't actually at Target last night, were you?"

"Nah," Lovett says, and it feels like more of an admission than it actually is. He squeezes his eyes shut, brief and tight, and then opens them again. "You can go there with me after work today, though. We can talk then. Promise."

"Okay," Tommy agrees. Lovett exhales, and then the barista's calling their names. Tommy glances at Lovett askance as they're walking back to the office with their coffees. "You aren't, like, dying of some sort of chronic illness, are you?"

"Don't be so dramatic, Tommy," Lovett sniffs. He laughs when Tommy rolls his eyes and sends him a rude gesture.

;;

Recording goes about as well as can be expected, which is to say: thank God that Lovett's baseline for getting through the day has been ranting about politics into a microphone for the past year and a half.

Jon puts in a Postmates order for Chipotle at lunch after they finish with the ads, and Lovett checks his phone at his desk as he eats. There's a message from Jon, just a string of question marks, and Lovett shoots off a quick _I promised Tommy I'd talk to him tonight. About everything. At least my half of it. Are you okay with that?_ before he navigates to his text chain with Ronan.

He sent a photo of his breakfast hours before Lovett woke up this morning, and then, later on, a link from Mia to pass along about a new astrophysics book coming out that she thought Lovett might be interested in.

 _Preordered that so fast_ , Lovett sends back, and is trying to figure out how to broach the subject of the last twelve-odd hours when Jon texts him again.

 _Absolutely. Do you need me to be there?_ the message says, because he always means well.

Lovett desperately wants to say yes, and also fiercely to say no. The two desires war in him for a minute before he sends, _I know how to put my big boy pants on when I need to. I'll be fine._

He sees Jon's head snap up, but he doesn't bother making eye contact. All Jon will do is try and be more reassuring.

The rest of the day does him the disservice of going by quickly, despite what feels like a growing albatross around his neck. 

Lovett spends the hour he's allocated toward a piece for the website texting Ronan on iMessage instead, shooting the shit about nothing in particular: Ronan's deadlines, the dogs, everyone's holiday plans. They'll be in Utah through Christmas, and then Lovett will be with Ronan and Mia on the farm through New Years, as usual.

It's kind of wild to think that the European leg of the tour is less than a month away, which will either be awful with too much togetherness, or—no, it'll probably just be the first part. Lovett looks up accidentally and meets Jon's eyes as he comes out of the kitchen, a glass of water piled high with ice clutched in his hands. His smile is so hopeful it's almost hard to look at him. 

_How are you holding up?_ , he texts when he sits back down. Before Lovett can even formulate a response, he adds, _I know you're fine. I'm just checking in._

Whatever Lovett could say gets stopped in its tracks. Of course he is. That's Jon all over. _It's Tommy_ , Lovett sends. He hopes he sounds more confident than he feels. _What's the worst that could happen?_

Famine. Disaster. A dramatic breakup of the company. The loss of a decade-long friendship. He's about to keep casually catastrophizing when he gets another text from Ronan, a picture of a shot from Howl's Moving Castle that's playing at the corner of one of the big computer monitors in his study. _I see no point in living if I can't be beautiful_ , the subtitle says, and it's so patently Ronan that Lovett almost laughs aloud, just manages to swallow the sound. It's such a fucking cliche, but something about it makes Lovett feel a little more settled.

 _Hey_ , he types out, seizing on the moment of clarity before it slips through his fingers. _I'm talking to Tommy about everything tonight. Pray the grenade doesn't blow up in my face?_

 _I love you_ , Ronan returns first, and Lovett's chest clenches as he watches the typing bubble pop up again. Funny how he never feels like he needs to hear it until someone actually says it, and then it's all he can think about. _I have no doubt it will be fine, Jonathan_ , he sends, _But if it makes you feel better, you know you can always abscond to New York if you need to._

 _My hero_ , Lovett sends back, just in time for Brian to send him a slack message about the article. Life goes on, Lovett thinks grimly, and lifts his hands to his keyboard.

At six, after most of the rest of the office has trickled out and even Jon's taken his leave to pick up dinner for himself and Emily, Lovett wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans, whistles for Pundit so he can clip on her lead, and slings his backpack over his shoulder.

Tommy stands and stretches, too, sliding his laptop into his messenger bag, and follows him out onto the street. "We can just walk over, it's five minutes," Lovett says, and Tommy acquiesces with a shrug.

"Wanna tell me why Jon sent me a slack message to take it easy on you before he left?" he says mildly, jogging up so they're walking next to each other.

"God, are we all in middle school?" Lovett snarks, an autonomic response at this point, and then winces. "Sorry, sorry."

"Honestly, the more you apologize, the more worried I get," Tommy says, and it's meant to be disarming, Lovett's sure, but all it really does is make him tenser. 

He should probably just rip the bandaid off and get it over with, except: sometimes, under circumstances of extreme duress and also when he's a couple of drinks deep at Hollywood mixers he'd rather avoid, Lovett's brain decides one thing and his mouth does another. In this moment, it's chosen to clam up, all the way through crossing the street and walking into the Target, browsing idly through the Dollar Spot before Tommy pulls him toward the Toy section.

"Can't believe Jon went over the fifteen dollar limit," Tommy says, peering at the Bop-It display in the first aisle they go down. "That betrayer." He scoops Pundit up into his arms and kisses her furry head. "Jon's such a betrayer, huh, Pundo?"

"She can't—" The end of the sentence is _understand you_ but for some reason, the words get caught in his throat. If Tommy notices, he doesn't comment on it.

"What are we thinking?" Tommy says, after a few minutes of aimless wandering. "Coloring books are really big now, right? Taylor was telling me that some guy in her office buys them in bulk and just doodles while he sits on conference calls. Says it's soothing." 

Tommy looks across at him, brows up like he's waiting for a response, maybe a Soothe joke, but Lovett can't think of one. He's never really been good at forced relaxation, no matter how many guided meditation sessions Mia has tried to lead him in.

"Wait a second," he says, stopping abruptly. A suburban mom sends them an odd look and wheels her child out of earshot. "Should we be shopping together? Isn't the whole point of a yankee swap that the gifts are a surprise to everyone?"

"You can always wrap yours in something unrecognizable at home," Tommy says reasonably, bouncing Pundit in his arms and leaning forward. "You're not weaseling out of this, Lovett."

Tommy's eyes look grayer than usual underneath the fluorescent lights, a delicate little wrinkle in his brow. He looks good even washed out like this, even when he's concerned and disappointed, which is just unfair. Lovett feels tired all of a sudden, like a puppet with its strings cut, ready to collapse in a heap on the cold tile. 

"No, you're right," he says through his teeth. Somehow, Tommy manages to look even more alarmed. That isn't great; Lovett soldiers on anyway. "I wasn't here last night because Jon was over at my house."

"Okay," Tommy says, stretching out the vowels. "Is that weird? I don't get it."

"We're sleeping together," he says. "Jon and I. Me and Jon."

He watches Tommy blink, mouth parting as he turns the proclamation over in his head. "But what about. Um. Are you and Ronan," Tommy starts, frowning. "What about Emily?"

"Em knows. Ronan too," Lovett says, too hasty, sliding a nervous hand through his hair. "He's the one who suggested it. We—he's been exploring with, with sleeping with some other folks, and he thought it might be, um. Beneficial if I did the same." It's too cold and too hot at the same time; he feels simultaneously claustrophobic and overexposed. They shouldn't be doing this out in the open. Lovett should've taken Tommy home, but it's too late for cover now. "Exclusive, but non-monogamous." He's said it so many times at this point it feels like a damn political slogan.

"Right," Tommy says, and then shakes his head. "And you were gonna tell me this when?"

"For sure some time before the heat death of the universe," Lovett mumbles. He keeps walking down the aisle, steps stuttering as he reaches out to touch one of the Olaf plushies.

Tommy sighs behind him. "Real comforting, Lovett," he says, exasperated, which is, at least, more familiar. "I—obviously I don't know how long this has been going on, but I'm kind of impressed that Jon managed to keep it to himself for—however long it's been." 

Lovett laughs because he can't help it. It's fucking surreal to be standing in the toy aisle at Target casually discussing the particulars of his sex life. If someone had told him he'd be here even a week ago, Lovett would've called it the worst kind of fake news. "When you put it that way, I guess it is surprising you didn't hear it from no-chill Favreau first," he says, stepping back from the stuffed Olafs. He rocks forward onto the balls of his feet and then keeps walking. "So, uh. You aren't mad?"

Tommy sighs again. "No," he says, soft but firm. "Am I allowed to ask questions, though?"

"I reserve the right not to answer," Lovett says, but flaps his hand.

"When _did_ it start?"

"Friday," he supplies, "after the, uh, the holiday party," and Tommy says, "Ohhh," like he's putting some of the pieces together.

They turn the corner, toward the board games and card games and other trinkets. Lovett lifts a Cars-themed set of UNO off a rack and studies it blandly, nearly drops it when Tommy asks, steady as ever, "So is it just sex? Are you guys, like, dating or whatever?"

Lovett makes the mistake of looking up at him, the appraising lift of his eyebrows and his loose, open stance, his arms curled protectively around Pundit, like maybe she really is an angel, and he's—buffering her descent. It's not often, these days, that Lovett feels like everything he's feeling is written all over his face, but these are pretty extenuating circumstances.

"What the fuck, Tommy," he says, enunciating to try and calm his wildly fluttering nerves. "I've known the man since I had to help him write a statement proving he wasn't a sexist pig. Dating! What."

Tommy's forehead is creased, but he's smirking when he says, "Methinks the gentleman might protest too much? Come on, Jon. There's a difference between leaving notes in people's lockers and dotting your i's with bubbled hearts, and, I don't know. Spending time with somebody. Determining if you're compatible."

"And then what?" Lovett asks, jaw clenched. "I have a partner, Tommy. Jon is married. It's not 'just sex', whatever the fuck that means. We've known each other too long. But it's not… it's not what you were implying, either."

Tommy starts to say something, but he cuts himself off. Maybe something on Lovett's face convinced him. Maybe his own, Jon-related casual sex is what did the trick.

"He's good in bed," Tommy finishes, after a few seconds of recalibration. "If there's anybody you're going to experiment with, I'm glad you decided to do it at home."

"Shut up," Lovett says, but he can't help but laughing, and after another few seconds of delay, Tommy joins him. "Stop trying to be the cool mom."

"You know," Tommy says. "Talking about your feelings is healthy." He pauses very deliberately to drop a kiss to the top of Pundit's head. She woofs at him.

"How about we. Can we talk about something else? Anything else? I think I've met my quota of soul-baring sincerity for the rest of the year," Lovett says, turning to put the deck of UNO back on the rack.

"How have you guys negotiated any of this without talking through your motivations?" Tommy asks. He can flip from sarcastic to sincere on a dime, but Lovett knows his face; he's being candid, open in the way that only a person with way more experience on a topic than you do can be. "Did you just, what? Slip, trip, then fall on his dick?"

"Wow, that's gross," Lovett says, rolling his eyes. "I know you're quoting something, but I also don't know what you're quoting. Stop quoting it."

"I'm just trying to have an _open_ and honest dialogue," Tommy says. He's smirking again.

"Okay, Dr. Phil." Lovett shuffles over to fiddle with an unpackaged Rubik's cube on display. It's been years since he solved one of these in totality, but he still remembers the first steps: white cross, white corners, the second layer of color. "I'm, um," he mumbles eventually, "The thing is. I'm not very good at no-strings-attached. I never got into the habit, you know." A pause, and then, "You _do_ know. You of all people would know. I'm not good at it. I can't do what you and Hanna do."

Very carefully, Tommy says, "And what is it, Lovett, that Hanna and I do?"

He doesn't sound mad, but Pundit squirms in his arms anyway, twisting so that her head is level with his neck. She licks a stripe across his Adam's apple. Maybe it's a reproach, maybe an admonishment. Maybe she can sense, through their very real psychic connection, that Lovett is in crisis, and she's trying to deter it.

"I don't know," Lovett says. "I don't _know_ what you do. The only thing I'm sure of is that I don't know what it's like to be casual about sex, or relationships, and I don't like taking risks unless all possible outcomes are laid out for me in neat little boxes. I want to be contained at all times, usually, so—so all this talk of, 'what do I want', and 'is it just sex'—I don't know! It's all new." 

His voice cracks, but even that mortifying roadblock can't stop the deluge. 

"Tommy," he says, pitching his voice low, even though there aren't many people around at all. "I don't know if you know this, but a rational person would have cut and run after their boyfriend decided to move to London. And then New York. But I didn't. I stayed. We love each other, so I stay." He squeezes his eyes shut briefly, hard enough to see stars. If he cries in this Target, he may have to walk into traffic. "I love him, and he said that I could do this. So I'm trying it out. Seeing if I'm any good at it. That's all."

"Okay," Tommy says. He doesn't look as freaked out as Lovett would have expected him to, but then again, he does have years of National Security spokesman blank-face training. 

"Okay?" Lovett asks. "What does that even mean, in this context?" 

Tommy reaches out slowly and takes the cube from Lovett's fingers. "In my experience, it's not really about whether you're good at it or not," he says, and he's smiling a little when Lovett looks up at him again. "It's more about just—being honest about what it is you want."

Lovett could tell him now, lay all his cards out on the table. It's a good moment for it, the perfect set-up for a lay-up, or whatever sports analogy works best. They're in a family establishment, though, and they've already far exceeded the boundaries of acceptable conversational topics for Monday night at Target.

"Do you want to get out of here?" he blurts, and he doesn't really get why that would be a smirking matter until Tommy does it. He doesn't loom, doesn't make a suggestive gesture, lick his lips, make his cheek pop, but he does grin, and Lovett—is mortified. "Oh, shut up. I know you're so casual about it. Bisexual icon, Tommy Vietor. I get it. You're cool. Sex is cool."

Tommy doesn't stop smiling entirely, but Lovett watches as his eyes narrow. "Sex _is_ cool, Lovett."

"Fuck off. Mr. Indiscriminate. How many people do you even take home?" 

His smile dims. "Are you asking me for a rundown? Is that what this is?" He rolls his eyes and pitches his voice lower. "I don't kiss and tell, man. I am not that kind of girl."

"How about with Jon," Lovett hears himself say.

To his credit, Tommy doesn't blush or stammer, or pretend to be confused. What he says instead is, "I don't think Jon is that kind of girl either."

"You know that's not what I mean," Lovett argues. He's getting a little too loud, so he tries to modulate it. "How many times have you and Jon… did you know he gives blowjobs now?"

"What," Tommy says, finally sounding annoyed. "Does he have a kiosk at the mall? What the hell, Lovett. What are you even getting at?"

The truth is, it's the least revealing thing about last night that he could say. He's sure Tommy and Jon don't have the kind of secrets that preclude them from talking about whose girlfriend fucked whom with the strap-on last.

"I just want… I told you, okay. I have no idea what I'm doing here. You and Hanna seem to do alright. You don't see her falling in love with other men and leaving you out to dry."

"Is that what you think Ronan will do?" Tommy asks.

Lovett can't help laughing, lets himself really lean into it. It feels like relief when he straightens up again, grabbing another box at random, and peering at it with unseeing eyes.

"No," Lovett says, honestly. "I'm not sure this swinging thing would be solved if he lived on this side of the country full time, but we'd work it out. He loves me. I believe that."

"Me too." When Tommy smiles again, the quirk of it is lopsided. "If you're worried about Jon, you should talk to him. That's all I'm saying. Use all those words you have for good."

"We're doing fine," Lovett says, and that may be true now, but he's not sure what happens after.

"I don't have a dog in this fight," Tommy says softly. He shrugs when Lovett looks at him again. "I mean, sure, I don't want my company to explode, and yes, will this upcoming vacation where we're all sharing a particularly minuscule bit of—"

"Tommy, that cabin is enormous," Lovett interjects, because he can't quite stop himself. "I'm sorry it doesn't align with your boat shoe-wearing, blue-blood-having, overly moneyed upbringing, but for us middle class normals, it's more than enough space to deal with this kind of potential implosion."

That Tommy laughs is a relief; that he shifts closer, banging their elbows together, makes Lovett finally relax his shoulders. Lovett takes a breath, and then casts a look toward the toys again. There's a mini Decision Maker toy tucked on the shelf behind some puzzle boxes.

"Do me a favor and turn your back for a sec," he says.

"Are you kidding?"

Lovett rolls his eyes and makes a spinning motion with his finger. "Come on. Does it sound like I'm kidding?" 

"Fine, fine." He finally turns, and Lovett grabs the box and holds it behind his back. "I just want to point out that this is stupid."

"Your face is stupid," Lovett snaps back. "Thank you for holding my dog."

He hides the Decision Maker from sight the whole way to the front of the store, switching it from side to side whenever Tommy veers closer. In his arms, Pundit has fallen asleep.

"You could have put her down," Lovett says, once they've paid, and he's double bagged his purchases to keep prying eyes from peeking.

Tommy kisses the top of Pundit's head and says, "It's no problem," as they walk out into the night. At the office, Tommy says, "Am I driving you home?"

It's not really on his way, but if he's offering, Lovett will take him up on it. 

"I can Lyft?" he asks. He's exhausted, not really feeling a wait, but Tommy has gone above and beyond tonight. If he wants to get home to his fiancé and baby puppy, he's more than earned it.

"Get in, loser," Tommy says, depositing Pundit in the backseat of the Audi and dropping his shades down to cover his face, even though sunset has long come and gone. "We're going shopping."

Lovett laughs, hand pressed dramatically to his chest, "Two Mean Girls references and shocking revelations about your sexuality? In one night? Tommy, I feel faint."

Tommy socks him hard on the shoulder before pulling into traffic. "We have seen that movie together, more than once, even, and also—Jon, come on. My sexuality has never been a secret."

He sounds thirty seconds from jumping into a tirade about bi-erasure that Lovett has both heard before and believes in wholeheartedly. Most of the time. 

"Sorry, sorry. I know. I'm an asshole. Sorry."

At the light, Tommy looks at him and offers a smile. "You are pretty awful, but I do like you." He takes a turn the wrong way, shrugs when Lovett makes a confused noise. "Look, you've clearly been stressed out, so why don't we stop for some Taco Bell? My treat."

"Is that in your meal plan?" Lovett asks, faux astonished, pressing a hand to his chest. "You sure you don't want to stop by Jamba Juice instead? How many Barry's Bootcamps are you going to have to attend to make up for this?"

Tommy laughs, shaking his head. "What Barry doesn't know won't hurt him."

The greasy carbs do make him feel better; so does the look on Tommy's face when Lovett makes him try some of his Crunchwrap Supreme. "Tastes a lot better than your fancy designer whey, right?"

"Don't knock the designer whey till you've tried it, Lovett," Tommy says sternly, but he does sneak a few more bites of Lovett's food. He'll consider it a win.

The car's quiet on the ride home, both of them digesting. Lovett lets his head rest against the window, and in less than fifteen minutes, Tommy's pulling into his driveway, and not even idling, turning off the engine entirely, and then facing Lovett with his brows raised.

"What?" Lovett says. He draws his knee up close to his chest, and says, "Stop looking at me like that. What?"

"I believe you invited me in," Tommy says, eyebrows inching higher, and Lovett—

"What," he repeats inanely. It's a miracle he can speak, throat as parched as the desert. "Are you—is this a proposition? Did you just wine and dine me?"

"If Diet Coke counts as wine, I guess," Tommy says, amused. After a moment, he frowns, twin wrinkles popping up between his eyes. "Wait, are you and Jon… is it like an exclusive thing? Is it just you guys, and then you and—"

"Tommy," Lovett says. "I thought we talked this out already. Do you really need me to… to… do you really need me to talk about this in more detail? Since when do you care about my sex life?"

Tommy shrugs. "Since you told me about it, I guess. It was just an offer."

If he'd been shocked before, Lovett feels twenty seconds away from tipping over like a fucking teapot. "Are you out of your mind?" Lovett asks. "Seriously. Are you—it was just an offer? An _offer_? Are you fucking kidding me?"

"I wasn't," Tommy says. He is eerily calm. He's not even blushing, but Lovett is, he can feel it.

"So it's just," Lovett says, voice scraped raw. "Is it a pity thing? No, thank you. Just because you feel bad for my sob story—"

Three things happen, one after the other. Tommy curses under his breath, then says something else Lovett can't quite hear. 

He says, " _What_?" in response, and then Tommy's kissing him, palm sliding behind Lovett's neck to anchor the two of them together. It's a messy, wet kiss, and Tommy's teeth scrape against Lovett's lower lip hard enough to sting.

"Lovett," he breathes. He bumps their foreheads together. "Is this good? Do you—"

What he realizes in the moment is that he doesn't want to say no. "No," he says, and when Tommy starts to pull back, he clamps his fingers in the soft, comfortable material of his t-shirt. "What I mean is, yes, it's good. My house is a disaster, FYI, and I have to, fuck. I have to text Ronan, but yes. Obviously. Obviously this is good."

Tommy's smile is small, and now he's blushing, which is as ridiculous as it is overwhelming. "I have to call Hanna," he says as they're climbing out of the car. Pundit woke up during the drive, or maybe during the—fuck, _kiss_ —and she growls softly as Lovett scoops her up.

"What the fuck, what the fuck," he whispers to her nonsensically, kissing the top of her head and squeezing her a little to get out some of the restless energy coiled in his arms. Unlocking the door, he says, "Reconvene in the living room in 5? I think I have, uh. There might be warm La Croix or Diet Coke that I haven't had time to throw in the fridge yet on the floor in the kitchen."

"Don't _throw_ it. It'll fizz." The way Tommy grins at his dumb joke warms Lovett straight through, makes him want to kiss Tommy again, fully prepared this time.

Lovett forces his feet to walk to the door instead, lets himself in the house, drops his Target bag and his backpack on the floor next to the mail table. When he tugs his phone out, he has several Twitter notifications, news alerts from WaPo and WSJ that don't look as terrible as they could be, and a text from Emily that reads, _VACATION IN TWO DAYS CHECKLIST: LEAVE CLOTHES TO EM?!_ She's included several contemplative emojis and also a string of yellow hearts.

There's a Snapchat from Ronan of his dinner, some eight course tasting menu nonsense from a work event he's at with Michael, and then, from Jon, a WhatsApp that says, _What's the verdict? Are we on the lam?_

Jon's not usually an emoji guy, not that Lovett uses them much either, but the message seems bare without any other accoutrements. _All good_ , he sends back. It's possible he's never uttered those words before in his life, digitally or otherwise. _Tommy's cool._

If there were something in front of him but a wall—if that weren't straight out of a Lear sitcom—he would bang his head against it. Aside from everything else that text is, it's also a lie: Tommy has never been cool a day in his life.

 _Have you been replaced by a pod person_ , Jon sends, and then, immediately: _You ARE a pod person. Oh no. That's so funny, I just startled Leo._

Lovett rolls his eyes and then toggles over to his text thread with Ronan. The last thing Ronan had sent was a video from two summers ago of baby Pundit, when she was still living with Mia, learning to walk on shaking legs and tipping over every other step. It's adorable. Lovett has it saved too, but they pass it back and forth whenever one of them needs a pick-me-up. 

_Hey_ , he sends. 

_Hi!_ Ronan responds near immediately. _How'd it go?_

 _It went fine_ , he texts. _Better than fine. Better than that._

 _That's great! I told you it would be okay._

Lovett casts a furtive glance around the living room, as though anyone but Pundit can see him. _He kissed me._

 _Jon's there again?_ Ronan sends. _Get it, babe._

It's such a strange thing to write that Lovett actually forgets how to make words into sentences for a moment. _No_ , he sends eventually. _Tommy._

In the half minute it takes Ronan to respond, Lovett's heart feels like it's about to beat out of his chest. _Holy shit_ says Ronan's reply, and then, almost immediately: _See what happens when you put your mind to things?_

 _Oh, fuck off_ , Lovett sends back, throws aside his phone for a moment so that he can sit on his hands. They're not shaking exactly, but they could, and that's dumb enough to hide, even from himself. He writes and deletes three different texts before sending, _If you really aren't okay with this, you have to tell me now._

 _If we're bringing Tommy in, I might want him to do me next_ , Ronan sends back, and that's—Lovett can't even think of an adequate response. The idea of Tommy bent over Ronan, folding him in half, kissing his shoulders… it's enough to make him dizzy.

"Hey," Tommy says from behind him. He's standing in the doorway, holding a can of Diet Coke. 

"That was fast," Lovett says. He curbs his tongue to keep from saying something general or hasty about the relative ease of open relationships. Maybe they do have a script. Maybe Hanna doesn't care. Maybe Hanna is out with somebody else right now, and he should mind his own business.

Tommy shrugs and says, "She was out. She knows the drill."

"There's a drill?" _Easy_ , his brain says as his voice cracks. _Take it easy, Jon._

Tommy settles on the couch to his left, his hand automatically finding Pundit's head and starting to pet her. "I mean, no," he says. "Not really. Sometimes we pick up together, but it's pretty much a solo roadshow. We don't always share all the details, but sometimes we do. It's all about—"

"If you think I'm going to let the phrase 'solo roadshow' go, Tommy, you don't know me at all," he says, feeling bold enough to tug his legs up and curl them, pretzel-style beneath him. Tommy does him the service of blushing, and it looks just as good as it had in the car, and in Target, and every other time it's ever happened during their friendship.

"How about we make a trade," Tommy says, looking over and catching his gaze. "I give you a blowjob, and you forget that sometimes I say stupid shit when I'm overwhelmed."

" _You're_ overwhelmed?" Lovett asks. He's trying not to squeak and failing miserably. By his thigh, his phone lights up with another message from Ronan that reads, _I wasn't kidding unless you're not into it, in which case, we can totally pretend that I was kidding._ "Ronan, um," he says, and watches Tommy's face transform. This isn't Tommy his friend, or Tommy his business partner, this is Tommy, the guy who is also in an open relationship and is paying attention to where the boundaries should be. Lovett lets his eyes sink closed, because that's the only way he'll get through this. "Ronan says that if—if this goes well, he, ah. He's next in line. If you're interested. If you. If you wanted him."

His ears are ringing so loudly it's nearly impossible to hear what Tommy says next, which is, "That, uh. That would be cool, I guess. If he's—I mean, _yes_ , obviously," and then, "What a jerk, bailing on the cabin. We could have. Fuck. There's less cross-country planning if you're all under one roof."

"He has the," Lovett says, eyes still closed. "News waits for no man, Tommy. Or woman. Person. You know."

"Yeah. I know." Tommy moves closer. Lovett can tell from the way the couch has shifted, and the light feeling of Tommy's breath on his neck. He can't control the shake in his hands again, or the goosebumps that scatter all over his skin. "Hey, you want to look at me, maybe?"

"I'm looking at you," Lovett says, can feel Tommy's laugh against his ear. He's not exactly surprised to feel his head being turned, Tommy's hand on his jaw, but it's startling enough that his eyes pop open on their own.

"Hey," Tommy says. "You know we don't have to do anything if you aren't into it, right? It's okay, Lovett."

It's such an easy out, and honestly, Lovett could use it. Take the night. Catch his breath. Do his laundry so that Emily has something to work with when she comes by tomorrow to help him pack. 

"I'm into it," he says, opening his eyes. "I'm in the mood," he continues, and watches Tommy's face flicker again with the smooth curve of his smile. Lovett's known Tommy long enough that he's catalogued most of his expressions by now, knows what Tommy looks like when he's happy or sad or angry and trying to hide it, when he's disgusted or dismayed, the whole gamut of emotions, but this one is new—or at least, it's new in this context. Lovett's seen Tommy look intent before, has seen him look _hungry_ , but—

Not at him. Not at _him_.

Just four days ago, Lovett didn't think he'd ever get any of this, would never even come close, but Tommy leans in, the smell of his cologne sharp and heady, and Lovett thinks, for the first time, as tentative and prayerful as the first spring shoot unfurling from the earth: _maybe I can_. Maybe this is something he can have; maybe he can be the kind of person who wants things and gets them, someone who can traverse the tricky landscape of fucking his friends and come out the other side of it without messing everything up.

Pundit yips from the floor when Tommy kisses him again, like she's bummed about the lack of attention. Lovett tucks a hand around Tommy's neck and holds him in place for a moment, their tongues sliding against each other, before he pulls back and shakes his head, laughing, when she paws at his foot.

"Come on," he says, jerking his head back toward his room.

"Pundit's such a needy angel," Tommy says and rises with him.

The hallway feels miles long, but they get to the end of it eventually. "Well, she's going through a confusing time, too," Lovett says. He keeps his voice purposely light as he closes the door behind them. "Her dad's been kissing all these people who aren't her other dad."

Tommy pauses for a brief moment, quietly assessing. "All these people, huh," he says. "Been hitting up the LA Grindr scene?"

"You know very well that I have not," Lovett says, perfectly enunciated. His bed still looks like it did this morning, when he and Jon left the house and rolled in a cool two hours into the work day, and—shit, the dildo and the lube are probably still tucked somewhere in the unmade sheets, because he's a human disaster. Fuck.

Tommy must see something change on his face, because he says, "What," eyebrows arching high.

If bodies could spontaneously burst into flames, his would. Maybe a part of him is hoping for it, even, but when seconds go by and the divine doesn't take control, Lovett says, "I haven't, ah. Jon spent the night, and I haven't had time to, you know. Clean up. We slept late."

Tommy's smirk is only gently mocking, and his voice matches it as he says, "Oh, you did? I didn't know. Don't remember."

"Shut up," Lovett says, rolling his eyes, but then Tommy's pushing him back against the mussed sheets.

"Wouldn't be the first time I've used the same bed linens Jon did after—um." His cheeks are pink again. Lovett wants to lean in and touch his face almost as much as he wants Tommy to keep going. Tommy's a study in contradictions, casual and easy with his affection but embarrassed to dissect it. "You know that we and Hanna and Emily have messed around before, right?"

"Yeah," Lovett says. "Emily's mentioned it before. Jon said, um. He said that you guys never did much."

Tommy's face does something complicated that Lovett can't decipher. "Haven't in a while, no," he says, sinking to his knees.

It's been nine years, and it still strikes Lovett, sometimes, that there are things between Jon and Tommy that he's never learned, too afraid to ask for fear of what he might uncover. For so long, he didn't feel entitled to know them, content with retreating behind his own privacy, behind jokes about not being included in the most trivial things in favor of ignoring anything deeper, anything that wasn't his business.

They're here now, though. They're so far past the point of no return. He could ask, the same way he tried to muddle his way through the first time he and Jon did this, but Tommy's brow smoothes out when he catches Lovett looking so intently at him, and the moment passes. His huge hands are chilly as he rucks up Lovett's shirt. He pulls them back to rub them against each other. "Sorry," he says, as though Lovett doesn't know what's coming next. "Bad circulation."

"I know, Tommy," he says and then tries not to flinch when Tommy's hands work at his belt.

The room is silent except for the harsh, needy scratches of their breath. Lovett doesn't need to look down to see that he's hard, cock aching against the already damp material of his TommyJohns. 

"I could make a joke," he says, casting around for something to fill the silence. Trying to lighten the mood. "You want me to? Would that make this less weird?"

Tommy flicks his gaze up, chewing on his bottom lip as his fingers curl around Lovett's hardness and the fabric. 

"Maybe later," he says, sounding strangled, and then leans in, pressing his hot, open mouth to where Lovett needs it most.

" _Tommy_ ," he gasps, when Tommy doesn't immediately tug his underwear down, licking and nipping against him through the cotton instead. "How are you such a tease? Jesus, get your mouth on me already."

Instead of doing that, Tommy pulls back again. Even in the relative dimness of the room, his mouth already looks red and ruddy. "You want it?" Tommy says. "Keep talking. Beg me for it."

It's difficult to get it together enough to roll his eyes, but Lovett manages it, nothing if not stubborn and determined. "What makes you think I'm going to beg? What makes you think I'd be into that?"

Tommy moves so fast, it's almost shocking, leaning in again, his pretty mouth stretching around Lovett's balls. "What if I'm into it?" he says, and his voice quiet, but then again, so is everything else. Lovett can't miss it. "What if I want that? You begging? Or what if I want—you telling me? Would that be okay? Is that something you'd be into?"

What it sounds like is Tommy asking to be bossed around. That's what it sounds like. Lovett's body feels like it's on fire. Again.

"Are you asking me to tell you what to do?" Lovett asks. He's in over his head, but he wants to be as clear as possible. "Because I… I can." He's done it before, for Ronan, when he's wanted Lovett to take charge. When Ronan's out of his mind with desire and wants to sink into it, wants to be told instead of asked. "Fuck, Tommy," Lovett says, shaky. "I really want you to suck me off."

With Tommy's head bowed and his hands on Lovett's hips, he looks like artwork, some ancient renaissance painting come to life. It's hard not to close his eyes against it, but Lovett nearly has to. 

It's so much. It's too much, especially when Tommy whispers, "I like getting my hair tugged," the words bumping against Lovett's stomach as Tommy presses a messy, lingering kiss there.

"Okay," Lovett agrees, somehow, unclenching his hand from his messy, unmade bed, and dropping it onto Tommy's head artlessly. "I would really like your mouth on me, Tommy. Can you please?"

He can't finish a sentence, but it almost doesn't matter, because Tommy takes the initiative, tugging the cotton down with his teeth, until Lovett's—wet, messy—underwear hangs limply between his knees. Tommy doesn't waste time, wrapping his huge hand around the base of his dick, and then leaning in and taking him all the way down in one go.

"Holy," Lovett starts, threading his fingers in Tommy's silky hair, and tugging just a little, just so he can see. He loses the rest of his words, watching the way Tommy's cheeks turn pink, from his blush, and from the exertion, probably. His lips are shiny, and the noises he's making are obscene, these long, low moans that sound ripped from his throat, audible, even though his mouth is full. 

Lovett isn't going to last long. His nerves have been a disaster all day, and he's turned on beyond recognition now. His body feels pulled in too many directions, sore and aching, and empty, but also so full. It's overwhelming. He doesn't want it to stop.

"Can you," he tries, feels like he's floating, like his voice belongs to somebody else, from far away. "Tommy, I'm coming soon. I'm gonna come so soon. Can you, please. Fuck. Can you touch yourself—can I come in your mouth while you jerk yourself off?"

It's not the most audacious thing he's ever said aloud. It's probably not even the most audacious thing he's said to Tommy, or in bed, but it _feels_ that way, feels like he's seconds from breaking apart entirely.

Tommy pulls off, gasping as he presses his mouth to Lovett's stomach again. "Yeah, okay. Okay, okay."

It's no time at all before he's sucking Lovett back down again, no time wasted. From the fast clip of his shoulder, Lovett assumes he's stripping himself hard, no frills, no decadence, pure efficiency. Something in his brain screams, _Next time, you should do that. Next time, get him in_ your _mouth. Next time. Next time. Next time._ The rational part of his brain screams to not make plans for a future that's not carved out in stone, but it's not loud enough to break in through the sweet haze that's already starting to hum through his bloodstream.

"Tommy," he groans. "Fuck." He's louder than he means to be, feels like he's loud enough to rattle the windows or shake the roof. He doesn't care. He doesn't. He comes down Tommy's pretty throat, gasping at the way it feels, how Tommy chokes a little but doesn't stop trying to swallow. "Come up here."

Against Lovett's thigh, Tommy's breathing hard. "What?" When he tips his head back, his eyes are glassy. He licks his lips—fuck, his lips are come-shiny, because he _swallowed_ —and then he says, "Do you…? Okay, Lovett."

He rolls up to his feet, the head of his thick dick visible above the waistband of his underwear. Lovett's spent, sleepy with it, but the sight of Tommy so disheveled and mouthwateringly hard is enough to make his dick twitch limply against his thigh.

"Shut up," Lovett says, and Tommy's eyes flicker with something.

"You shut up," Tommy snaps back, but the words are spurring him into action. He tugs off his dumb green t-shirt and shucks off his pants and underwear in one smooth slide.

To say that his body is beautiful is to say—Lovett doesn't have the words, but it's to say something. Tommy is beautiful in the way that poets write about, and it would be sickening if he weren't beautiful and also advancing toward Lovett on his bed. He sinks down slowly, careful, tucking his face against Lovett's neck and breathing in.

"What do you need?" Lovett whispers, letting his fingers rest against Tommy's hips.

Tommy grunts against his neck. "Can I grind off against your stomach?" He asks it like he's not already halfway there, with his hips hitching every couple of seconds, like he just can't help it. "Please, Lovett," he says, as if Lovett has been saying no. As if he has the ability to speak at all.

"Yeah." Lovett splays his legs open wider and wraps his other arm across the wide expanse of Tommy's back. "Use me," he says, in the flattest voice he can manage. "I bet you've been jerking off to this for—for years." 

Tommy shudders, moaning out a symphony of sound. "Can you please. Shut up."

"Have you?" Lovett asks. He can't stop his voice from cracking.

"No," Tommy says. It sounds honest. "I will now, though." When he comes, it's not loud, like everything else has been. 

Lovett forces himself to pay attention, to take inventory of the way Tommy tenses up, how his flushed skin flushes even darker, the low exhale that fizzes out of him. Lovett presses his mouth to one of the freckles behind Tommy's ear, rocking up to meet the stutter of Tommy's thrusts. He doesn't care that they're making a mess, and anyway, maybe he'll be able to force Tommy to do his laundry for him.

That's funny enough to say aloud, and Tommy lets out a rough laugh before he rolls over and deliberately wipes his stomach off with Lovett's loose top-sheet.

"Do your own chores or wait for your cleaning service to stop by," Tommy says, because he's a dick. He's still pink when he sits up, his bangs flopping in his face, and he gestures expansively at the bedspread. "Should probably put away the sex toys and the lube before that happens, though."

Lovett squawks, "I can't believe I'm being attacked in my own home like this," and Tommy laughs louder as Lovett shoves at his shoulder.

;;

It's not that Lovett thought that sleeping with Jon and sleeping with Tommy would be the same at all; aside from the Boston bro nonsense, they're both very different people. He just hadn't fully considered a scenario in which Tommy, who could act so serious or so sweet with zero provocation, would be the one to pull his clothes back on and wave at Lovett breezily before letting himself out of the house.

He hadn't fully considered anything like this before it actually happened, too afraid of jinxing it, which is probably the bigger issue here, but it's not something he wants to think about right now, so he pushes it aside. Later, later—there will be time for the chokehold of self-reflection later.

After Tommy's gone, Lovett bites his lip, stares down at the tacky mess still drying on his stomach, and takes a snap of it to send to Ronan. He can't really come up with a witty caption to send with it, but that turns out not to matter, because a FaceTime call patches through about two seconds after Ronan opens the message.

"You gotta give a guy some warning before you send pictures like that," he says. He sounds kind of breathless, and there are two spots of faint color high on his face. "What if I'd been out in public?"

Lovett glances at the time. "It's eleven o'clock on a Monday night on the east coast," he points out, and laughs when Ronan wrinkles his nose.

"Still," he says. "It's the principle of the thing." He pauses, leaning closer and blinking, and asks, "So is that yours or his?"

"His," Lovett says, feeling weirdly shaky. They video chat all the time, but they've never done it like this, Ronan's gaze steady on him through the screen as he surveys the damage.

"He messed you right up, huh?" Ronan asks. He's chewing on his bottom lip. "Is he still around? Let me say hi."

"You want to say hi to the guy who blew my brain through my dick?"

"I want to watch it," Ronan says. "I want to see you lose it. Did he swallow, or did you—did you come on his face?"

"He swallowed," Lovett says. He can't see Ronan's arms, just his face and the top part of his bare chest. He can't stop himself from blurting, "Are you touching yourself?" He can hear the way his voice cracks, but pushes through it. Has to know. "Ronan. Are you?"

"What do you think?"

"I think I need you to tell me, because I can't see your hands."

Ronan drags the camera down to where he's very definitely jerking off, the fingers of his other hand curled loosely around the base of his dick. He's so hard, already leaking.

"God, Ronan," Lovett groans. "God. How you look…"

"How I look? What about you?" Ronan says, and Lovett can see his face again, eyes glassy, cheeks flushed. "I'm proud of you. Is that weird?"

"You—" Lovett says, and he can't get hard again so soon, not anymore, but Ronan knows intimately, at this point, what buttons to push, how to make Lovett's belly go tight. "It's not weird." He sits up against the headboard and makes himself comfortable, nestled in the pillows.

"Good," Ronan says, smiling. He leans his phone against something, scoots back so Lovett can see all of him. The hand on his dick moves up to tease the head of his dick, and Lovett's mouth waters. "Keep talking. Tell me everything."

"There is no everything," Lovett says, flopping back. Tommy's come is cooling and sticky on his skin. "Can I wipe this? Have you looked your fill?" He's trying to go for something playful, but he's afraid it comes off cranky. Too vulnerable by half.

"Okay." Ronan shifts, and the way he moves up in bed gives Lovett a much broader view than he was expecting. 

Ronan's still in his briefs, black and silky. Definitely not Tommy John's, but expensive and well-tailored nonetheless. They fit like they were stitched onto his ass by tiny cartoon birds, or maybe blind Peruvian nuns. 

Ronan snaps with his free hand. "You're zoning out," he says, pressing his palm to his chest, eyes wide. "He really wore you out, huh?"

"Honestly," Lovett says, "I was thinking about you. Trying to puzzle out who makes your underpants."

"Brooks Brothers," Ronan says, blinking down at himself. "Why?"

"They look good."

"Stop it," Ronan says, but he's flushing, clearly pleased. 

It reminds him of the splotchy color on Tommy's skin, how red he got when he finally came, the tinges of vestigial pink in his face when he waved goodbye. "It's weird that Tommy left, right?" Lovett says. 

"Is it?" Ronan asks. He's settled back a bit. If the slow, careful glide of his wrist off screen is an indication, he's jerking off, but he's casual with it, easy, like he could stop at any time and have it not be a problem, or maybe—like just looking at Lovett is what's doing him in. The thought is heady enough that he packs it away for later, or maybe never, something just for him until the end of time.

"I don't know," Lovett says, a tiny hitch in his breath, just from watching. "I keep being surprised by them."

Ronan grins at him goofily, making eye contact before he gives the adult entertainment industry a run for their money with the way he tosses his head back. He's like living artwork.

"I," he says after a few seconds. "Wow, I really needed this, thank you."

"I didn't do anything," Lovett grouses back, still too wound up and unable to settle. "Did you even come?"

"There's nothing like a little delayed gratification," Ronan says, patting himself down discreetly. "Jonathan, if they're surprising you, I bet you're surprising them too. This is brand new. It's something you have to work through and navigate together."

Lovett shrugs and looks down at his stomach again, "Alright, I'm going to wipe down now. I don't care how much dried come does it for you."

"You do it for me," Ronan says on a groan, dipping his head back so that Lovett can take in the long unblemished column of his throat. "You can—honey, why don't you take a bath?"

They've had some fun with Lovett's tub and video chatting over the years. They've had some fun with Lovett's tub and Ronan being here, too. It's a good tub, even though his bathroom is minuscule.

"Yeah," Lovett says, pushing up to his feet. "I guess I can do that." He nearly trips over his sneakers and tries to laugh it off. "Are you getting off on the idea of me naked, or are you getting off on me… washing someone else off of me?"

"First of all," he says. "it's not ' _someone_ ', it's Tommy." His voice comes out tinny through the phone speaker, but he sounds confident. "Second, and more importantly, obviously, it's about you. It's all about you. I'm obsessed with you."

Lovett can feel himself blushing. "Shut up," he says.

"You shut up," Ronan throws back, grinning on screen with his brows raised, proof that he's a middle child always spoiling to spar. "Are you ever going to get in the bath?"

"I'm going, I'm going," Lovett says.

"Sound less enthused. I dare you."

"You don't have to dare me. I can out-cranky you any day of the week," Lovett says, plugging the tub and turning both spigots for the perfect temperature. "You know if I have to do this, you should have to do it too."

It's taken him a while—35 years and counting—to get comfortable enough with his body that walking around naked, even if he is ostensibly home alone, isn't weird. He's working on it. Every time he does it without wincing, it's progress.

"I'm not the one with Tommy Vietor's come on my stomach, am I?" Ronan says, but Lovett gets to watch as he pushes out of bed too, and takes the now familiar path from his bedroom to the bathroom. "I showered this morning, so this is all for you," Ronan says. "For your amusement. For your _arousal_."

He has a hard time keeping his voice even for the last part. Ronan is pretty good at keeping a straight face for all kinds of horrors, but his voice is always a dead giveaway. 

"I showered this morning, but mostly that was to wash the, uh. The come off. I didn't really get clean," Lovett says, leaning over to test the warmth of the water and then turning off the spray. He keeps the hand with his phone extended so it won't get wet while he settles, and if he angles his head well enough, can manage to watch Ronan doing the same. It's nice, that they're doing this. It's absurd, considering they both have work in the morning, but nice.

"What happened with Favreau last night?" Ronan asks. He's lathering himself up with a pink loofah, because he's ridiculous. 

Lovett can't stop himself from smiling at helplessly. It's weird to consider that it was only last night, that Jon was in his bed, fucking him with a dildo—one that's still lost in the messy cavern of his sheets—and then spent the night. He wonders if Emily worried. If she gave him the third degree when he brought home dinner, and maybe flowers. Did he grovel? Lovett can't quite picture it. He should have asked.

"We, uh," Lovett says, using his free hand to start soaping the mess off his stomach. With his eyes down, concentrated on cleaning himself off, it's easier to speak. "So, he—I mean, I sucked him off, and he. It would have been a waste for him to come all the way here—"

"That ten-minute drive is a killer," Ronan agrees solemnly.

"Seven," Lovett says out of habit, but it has the benefit of making Ronan laugh. "It's just different, though, you know. Proximity. He used to be able to. I mean. We have to put real effort into it now, to want to spend time together. It's not just crossing the street. That's all I meant."

Ronan doesn't interject that they work together, doesn't argue that proximity doesn't always help matters that can't be salvaged. What he says instead is, "Did you suck him off to prep him, or—"

"No," Lovett says. "I. I sucked him off, and he came—and then he fucked me with a, um. With one of my dildos."

The phone drops on Ronan's end. All Lovett can see, suddenly, is the stately crown molding in the corners of the room, and the pretty eggshell color the walls are painted.

"Um," he tries. "Ronan? Are you okay?"

After a second, Ronan's pink face pops into view upside down. "It was either drop the phone on the bath mat or drop it in the tub," he says. "Fuck, the next time you do that, can you at least call me, so I can watch?"

Lovett almost drops his phone too. "Get out of here," he says, automatic, also pink, sinking so the lower half of his face is submerged in the water.

;;

Lovett nearly forgets to wrap his yankee swap gift on the way out the door the next morning. In the closet off the main hall, he manages to find a suitably festive bag and some old tissue paper that he stuffs over the Decision Maker before he scoops Pundit up and carries her out the door.

It takes him two tries with the coat hanger to get the jeep to start, but at least traffic on La Cienega has cleared up enough that he gets to the office with time to spare. There are suitcases lined up neatly at the door for all the folks who are heading straight to the airport after work.

Of the three of them, Jon's always there first, drinking a mug of something steaming and peering at his screens. "Lovett!" he says, as Lovett unclips Pundit's leash and lets her loose. "Morning."

"Morning," Lovett says, throwing a perfunctory nod Jon's way and settling down at his work space. Tommy's sent a message to the company slack that reads _having some separation anxiety at Shomik's_. It's attached to a photo of him sprawled on the hardwood floor at Shomik's house, Lucca nosing at his belly.

"Did you see this shit from Tommy?" he asks the room. "Who called that he was going to be the sappiest dog dad in the pool?"

Tanya is the only one who laughs outright, but Lovett watches as Elijah tugs out his phone to check his notes app, like this is something they'd actually written down.

"Hmm," Jon says from his desk. "Pretty sure that was Tommy. He has met himself, after all." 

It gets a bigger laugh than Lovett's joke had, and Jon ducks his head a little as he revels in it. Lovett is too far away to see if Jon is blushing, but that's a nice thing to think about. It's the wrong time to be looking, because Jon catches him at it, and now it's Lovett's turn to flush. 

He gets a message in their private slack channel that says, _You good? Want to grab some coffee?_

Lovett is saved from answering by Tommy's entrance to the office. He's complaining about traffic as he tugs his messenger bag off. 

"I can't believe you've had her two seconds, and you're already whining. Tommy, it's a week." 

"You get to bring Pundit," Jon parries from across the room, and if there's something else in his tone—no, there _is_ something else in his tone—Lovett can't decipher it. 

"I am going to my—" He's always called them his 'in-laws' before. As a joke. For fun. Because that's what Mia and their family are, basically, after all this time. "You guys are all coming back to LA before we leave for tour. I am not, and I'm pretty sure Pundit would have eaten Spencer out of house and home if I left her with him for almost three weeks."

There's this, too: they've never been apart that long, not really. A few days here or there when he and Ronan have gone away, or the short weekends of a tour, but since he got her, it's been the two of them twined together, growing in each other's shadows.

"Yeah, yeah," Tommy says. He's rolling his eyes, but he smiles to temper it, the way he always does. There's a small discoloration on his neck, right where the collar hits, and Lovett catches himself staring before he realizes he doesn't recognize it, and he saw Tommy naked just yesterday. "Are we actually going to work today, or are we going to sit around and watch Lovett gloat because he gets to bring his dog on vacation and the rest of us don't?"

"Honestly, if I never had to hear about your fancy ski chalet again, it might be too soon," Tanya says, tapping her pointer finger against her chin. "Just saying."

"Do we talk about it that much?" Jon asks to laughter as he comes out of the kitchen with another glass of water. 

Lovett watches him drink, feels the deja vu settle over him like one of those compression blankets. It's harder to forget all their concentrated intimacies when Jon is standing front and center, pulling all the focus in the room. It takes some real effort for Lovett to drag his eyes away.

"It's salt in the wound," Elijah says, "that you guys are rich enough to—"

"Have you seen Lovett's car?" Tommy teases. "I would maybe re-adjust those 'rich people' stereotypes, if I were you."

"It's a classic," Elijah and Lovett say in unison, and that little bit of symmetry is enough to make the whole office laugh all over again.

It's a loose day, made even looser by the vacation atmosphere in the air. The fact that they have the yankee swap later makes everything feel lively and festive. That Lovett can't pay attention wouldn't be too notable on a regular day, but by 1pm, Elisa and Mukta are playing hangman on one of their iPads, and Jon—Jon is bearing down on him, after he wraps up recording the mailbag with Dan.

"Hey!" he says, cheery. He leans over Lovett's desk like it's the old days, and he's going to offer to punch up an energy speech. "I haven't seen much of you today."

Jon's hip is cocked against the corner of Lovett's desk. There's about a foot of space between them, but it's not nearly enough. Jon shifts even closer when he drops a few scritches to the top of Pundit's head.

"I, uh," Lovett says, but there's no end to the sentence that makes any sense and no answer he can give that he's willing to discuss in front of their employees. "I don't think I slept great," he says. "I'm a little out of it."

"I'm going to send the interns on a coffee run," Jon says. "You want them to grab you something?"

"Uh," Lovett hedges. 

"Lovett," Jon says. "What's going on with you, man?" 

"Nothing," Lovett says, face hot. "I'm—nothing. Go away, you're ruining my view."

Instead of getting mad, Jon laughs, full-bodied as always. It's hard not to look at him and want things. Too many things. Unnameable things. Too many to count.

"Your view of… the conference room? Okay," Jon says, but then he goes.

Lovett is not surprised to look up from his text thread with Ronan ten minutes later to find Jamie the intern hovering and holding a cup of coffee from the Starbucks across the street.

"What do I owe you?" he asks, but they shake their head and leave the drink on the edge of the desk.

"Don't worry about it. Jon gave me cash."

There are at least three witty comments he could make here, even more noise he could start about decorum and company professionalism, but Lovett can't get any of them out fast enough.

"Thank you," he says, and then because he can't help himself—"You don't have to get anybody's coffee, Jamie. You're here to learn, not be pigeonholed into the role of caffeine-retriever."

Jamie beams at him for a second, and then says, "I was going anyway, but thanks. I won't put that part on my resume."

;;

The general mayhem of the yankee swap also means that for the duration of the afternoon, Lovett manages to temporarily slither out of answering any hard questions Jon might try to ambush him with. If there's anything Lovett's learned about Jon over the past nine years, it's that he has the sort of determination people write about in epic poems; even the excitement of trying to get the dogs to chase after the remote-control car Lovett got in the swap can't quite squash the feeling of something hanging over his head.

Lovett gets ready to head out at around 6. Elisa and some of the interns are going to a bar down the street to "celebrate their freedom", but Lovett has to pack, and Emily said she'd be by with takeout after her run. He should probably make sure his house is presentable. He should definitely make sure that his dildo is boiled clean and put back in its drawer. Maybe he should throw the sheets in the washer, too. 

"Are you heading out?" Jon asks, wandering over to where Lovett is kneeling and clipping Pundit's leash to her collar.

"Yeah," Lovett says. Meeting Jon's eyes is harder than he wants it to be. He takes a breath and gets to his feet. "I have a hot date with your wife. We're watching Hoarders, she's packing my suitcase, she might be stealing some Postmates out of your fridge…"

Jon grins at him and says, "Why are you always stealing my food, like some sad Victorian orphan? Should we be calling you—"

"Shut up," Lovett says. "If you say 'Oliver', I'm going to scream."

"I was going to say Harry Potter," Jon says, with all of the conviction of someone who has never read the books. 

"Harry Potter wasn't—" Lovett starts, but Jon cuts him off again.

"I just didn't want you to scream," he says. He's beaming, like just by looking at Lovett, his mouth can't contain itself. 

Lovett tries to think of a witty rejoinder, but all he can think to say is, _I came in Tommy's mouth last night_. Jon won't care. Lovett is fairly certain Jon won't care, but that doesn't stop the churning in his gut when he thinks about saying the words out loud.

"You mind if I tag along?" Jon asks. 

"You really want to watch bad reality TV and also your wife picking out my clothes?" Lovett asks. He can hear how strangled his voice sounds, when he adds, "Wait, is this some weird sex thing for you two? You watch her boss me around and then you—"

Jon glances quickly around the office. Lovett watches it happen, but he's still not prepared for the way Jon dips in and presses their mouths together, once, twice, briefly, but still for long enough that his hand makes its way up to Lovett's neck. He squeezes, and Lovett has to fight not to groan into his mouth.

"What are you _doing_ ," he hisses. "Jon, we have employees."

"I just wanted to do that. You've been avoiding me all day. I wanted to see if it still worked."

"Still works," Lovett agrees, dazed. His phone buzzes with a WhatsApp from Emily. She's done with her run, putting out water for Leo, and then she's heading over. "I have to go." Lovett holds up the screen like Jon will be able to read their entire exchange in the brief flash.

"I'll see you later, Lovett."

"Yeah," Lovett says, starting to walk away. He turns around before he can stop himself and adds, "Come by, don't come by. I know you're a busy guy."

He hears Jon laugh. "I'll be there."

Lovett beats Emily to the house, but just barely. He hears the bell as he's shoving his sheets into the washer. She has her phone out when he finally gets the door, her hair pulled up into a high ponytail, bags from at least four different stores at her feet.

"Your car is in the drive, so I suspected you might be here, but then again, I have also seen you try to turn that death trap on, so I thought maybe you caught a ride in with Tommy this morning."

"With," Lovett says inanely, trying to sound normal as he stands aside to let her in. "With Tommy? Why?"

Em bends down to drop scritches against Pundit's belly. "Because I already knew where Jon was?"

"I drove myself to work today, thank you," Lovett says, not meaning to be cranky but not entirely able to help it. "Do you want a drink or something before we do this?"

She mumbles something he can't hear, maybe to the dog, and then, "Wait a second, Lovett, are you _mad_ at me? Are you okay?"

"I'm not mad," Lovett says, grabbing two glasses from the cupboard and filling them with water before setting them down on the counter, probably too hard. 

Emily doesn't look mad either, which is a relief, especially when she says, "Did something happen with Jon?"

"What," Lovett says. "You don't think he would've told you?"

"Lovett. This would be easier if you just used your words. I'm not a go-between, okay?"

"I," Lovett starts, pauses to drag in a deep breath, and then says, "I slept with Tommy, okay? I collected them all."

He's expecting shock or horror, forgetting,for a second that Emily has also—maybe—slept with Tommy. She's definitely done _something_ with Tommy.

"Okay," she says. "Was it… bad?" The way her mouth twists and her fingers press against his arm tells him that hasn't been her experience with Tommy at all.

"No," Lovett says. "It was fine. It was great. He's very…" He waves his hand, like that can possibly encapsulate everything that Tommy is.

Emily grins at him. "He is that."

Lovett laughs, blushing. If it's this easy to tell Emily, it should be just as easy to tell Jon. He takes a sip of water. "I didn't, um. I just haven't told Jon yet."

When Lovett picks his head up to look at her, she's chewing on her bottom lip. "Did you—"

"I told Ronan," he blurts. He wishes the water were something stronger. "He knows. He's fine with it. You know how he is, all 'I just want you to be happy, Lovett' and 'Do whatever makes you feel comfortable, Lovett'. He was good about it."

Emily hums under her breath, head tilted consideringly. "Of course he was." She eyes him, emptying her glass of water and going to the sink for a refill before returning. "Big step forward in the whole open relationship thing, huh? You've come a long way."

"I'm as surprised as you are," Lovett says, ducking, hand reaching back to scratch his neck. It was a nice night with Tommy. He wouldn't have expected it, but now that it's happened, he knows he liked it. He wants it to happen again. "Maybe it's a thing that gets easier every time." He pauses, chews on his lip. "I'm, ah. How do you think Jon will take it?"

"I think he'll be happy you told him," she says.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Her smile is good, but her pitch is a little off. "Let's go get you packed, okay? I grabbed you some stuff from the Grove. Come on, I want to see you try it on."

"I'm not a doll—"

Emily laughs and says, "You kind of are."

Suddenly they're fine again, the oddness between them gone as he follows her out of the kitchen and down the hall to his bedroom, where she dropped her shopping bags. 

"Okay, strip."

"No, thank you," Lovett says, but she just stares him down until he tugs his sweater over his head. 

"Was that so hard?" she asks. She's going for the armchair in the corner of the room instead of the bed, even though the sheets are brand new.

"Yes," Lovett whines, but they get through three sweaters and a ski jacket. The last thing she brings out is some kind of wicking, heat-contracting undershirt that's supposed to contort to his body and keep it warm, in up to -20 degree temperatures. "Negative twenty," he says, plucking at the regular looking cotton. "I think someone fleeced you."

"Try it on," Emily says, but she's not even looking up from her phone to see the face he pulls.

"How much did you shell out for this, twenty, thirty dollars?"

"A hundred."

"A hundred dollars?" The indignation in his belly is real, and so is the way his voice cracks. "You spent a hundred dollars on a cotton t-shirt? Emily, I have some swampland in Florida to send you. I bet you could build a casino on it. A hundred dollars?" 

She peeks up from her phone briefly. "I have one, and I got another for Jon, too. He likes pulling them on when we get out of the hot tub. Says they keep him toasty."

Lovett has seen every part of Jon's body. Has watched him climbing in and out of their pool a hundred times, the hot tub a hundred more, but the image of it stops him cold, brain straining to imagine each and every droplet of water on his chest, to wonder whether or not he'd wipe down all the way before tugging his shirt on.

The man himself interrupts them before Lovett gets so far gone that his dick starts chubbing up in his sweats, thank god. Lovett hears the distinct click of the front door opening, Pundit and Leo's muffled woofs to each other.

"Did you—" Lovett tries. It only takes him two tries to unstick his tongue.

"Yeah," Em says smoothly. "He just texted that he was pulling up with dinner." She pauses, considering, and the moment stretches out a little too long. "Should I not have told him to use the spare key?"

"What?" Lovett asks. His voice is both too rough and too high-pitched, somehow. 

"I'm taking the dogs out for a sec," Jon calls from the front hall. Lovett imagines him moving around the room, comfortable in the space like he is everywhere else. "Pundit looks ready to shit herself."

"Really nice language, Jon," Lovett makes himself yell back. 

He hears Jon's laugh, and then, "I grabbed pizza from that new place on Santa Monica." Lovett can hear the dogs moving around, the distinct click of Pundit's toenails and the heavier tread of Jon's sneakers. "I left it on the counter." 

Before Lovett can yell anything back, he hears Jon pulling the door shut behind him. Still on her phone, Emily stops biting her thumbnail to hum appreciatively.

"Pizza sounds great. Are you hungry? I feel like I could eat ten of those little pita pockets right now."

"You're a pita pocket," he grumps back, tugging the shirt up and over his head and pulling back on what he'd been wearing before. It's old and worn. He's had this sweater for at least five years, if not more. It has buttons at the neck, so it was probably Jon's once upon a time.

"I take that as a compliment," Em says, grinning as she precedes him out of the room. 

As usual, their timing is impeccable. Jon's coming in through the backdoor as Emily and Lovett shuffle into the kitchen.

"Hey!" he says. He's beaming at both of them.

"Hey, hon," she says, fitting against his side and leaning back to accept his kiss. It's like deja vu, like being dragged back in time to last week, except now Jon reaches his other arm out fingers curling against the air like he wants Lovett to come closer. To _join them_.

"What," Lovett says. 

Even though he knows what, especially obvious in the way Jon pulls away from his wife to roll his eyes and say, "I want to kiss you now. Would that be okay?"

It would be. It wouldn't be. Lovett wants it so badly his fingers are tingling.

"I—slept with Tommy," he blurts, instead of going over and accepting the kiss on offer. "Last night. We went shopping, and then he brought me home, and then we fucked."

Thank god these sweatpants have pockets, because they give him something to do with his hands in the startling silence of the kitchen. For once, Leo is the one who barks, probably wondering why all of his humans are suddenly so quiet.

"Okay," Jon says, moving away from Emily and where they'd been leaning against the sink. He sets his palms down flat on the kitchen island. Lovett can't read his mind, but he knows all of Jon's tells, the carefully measured breaths and the jiggling knees. The way he dips his eyes closed every few seconds, like somehow the dark will bring more information to light.

"I'm going to go help this one finish packing," Em says, fingers curling briefly over Jon's arm. She reaches in between them to pop open the lid of the pizza box to grab a slice, motioning for the dogs to follow with her free hand.

The bulb is out in the sconce in the hallway. Lovett has been meaning to replace it, but he's also been meaning to grow five inches, and neither of those things have happened in the recent past.

"Sorry," Lovett says, running hot and then cold. He doesn't even really know what he's apologizing for, and from the look on Jon's face, he can tell.

"Is this why you've been avoiding me all day?"

"I wasn't—" Lovett starts trying to deny, and stops short when Jon sends him an unimpressed look. "Okay, I was. I just didn't know how to tell you without making it a whole thing."

"I don't understand," Jon says, and somehow, he manages what Lovett can't. He sounds plaintive instead of whiny. "Did you think I wouldn't care, or were you keeping it a secret on purpose? And if. If you were keeping it a secret, why? I wouldn't have—Jon, I wouldn't have tried to stop you."

Lovett's body feels too hot again. He can feel himself starting to sweat, taking a breath to calm his annoyingly fluttering nerves. It doesn't work. Of course it doesn't. He tries to curb his tongue, but what comes out instead is, "It's weird that you're jealous. Ronan isn't even jealous."

That's what does it, Jon's eyes popping open as his cheeks flood with color. He mumbles something as he turns to open Lovett's fridge, turning back around as he pops the tab on the can of Bud. He doesn't speak, taking a long swig instead, and Lovett can't help himself as he watches the elegant way Jon's throat convulses as he drinks.

"You're right," Jon says, setting down the can with a loud clink. "I am jealous." He finds Lovett's eyes again, and the gaze alone makes it feel like icicles are dancing across his skin.

"I don't know why you're doing this."

Jon lets out a breath, grabs a slice of his own pizza and takes a bite, the cheese hot and stringy. "What am I doing? I'm just eating dinner with my wife and my—"

"Your friend," Lovett fills in. "Your friend, who you happen to have sex with now sometimes."

For as long as they've known each other, Lovett has never known Jon to yell. Not at his friends, not at his subordinates, not at Andy, or the hundreds of Favreaus and extended family that tend to come visit during the long, stretching winter when the northeast is covered in snow. Jon doesn't raise his voice when he's really angry, so Lovett isn't expecting it when it happens.

"Goddamnit," he curses, eyes squeezed shut, jaw working. It's easier to stare at him now that his eyes are closed. "I thought we already covered this."

"Covered what?" Lovett says, holding himself in his arms, heart thumping in his throat.

When Jon opens his eyes again and looks at him, his expression is incredulous. He puts his pizza down and shakes his head. "Sunday morning before brunch, I thought we'd ironed all of this out. That we were going to try something different."

"Right," Lovett says slowly, drawing out the vowel, swallowing hard. "We established that it wasn't just meaningless sex, and our arrangement of friendly fucking has been great, but that doesn't mean—I don't have to report all my comings and goings to you, do I? It's not that kind of relationship. You don't want that."

"Lovett," Jon snaps, eyes flashing. "How can you be so sure what it is that I want when you haven't even asked? When you can't even be honest about what _you_ want? Fuck."

That's fair. It makes Lovett feel like liquid nitrogen's been poured down the back of his shirt, but that's fair. Jon isn't blind, and he's known Lovett for years. All he's saying now is the truth.

"I told you, from the beginning," Lovett says, voice small and unconvincing even to him. "that I haven't been good at being casual, but I wanted to try. That maybe it'd be easier with you, since we were already friends."

Jon exhales, rubbing a palm across his face. "Sorry," he says, sharp and gravelly. "I misunderstood. If it's still that casual for you, we have to renegotiate, Lovett." Lovett swallows over the blood rushing through his ears, hears Emily's lilting voice at brunch on Sunday saying the same thing, saying, _I don't think it was just sex for Jon_. "It's not a smart idea for me to, uh. The way I feel about you has never been casual. I really thought you knew that."

For the rest of his life, Lovett will never forget this moment. It echoes in his brain, bouncing around until it's all he can hear: _I really thought you knew that_. Jon never bothers trying to hide his emotions, not anymore, not now that he doesn't have to, so Lovett gets hit with the brunt of his sincerity. _I really thought you knew that_ , honest and plain and hurt. Lovett's been so focused on trying to manage his own expectations, so wrapped up in fighting every neuroticism rearing up in his head, that he's been a pretty shitty listener. Maybe he _would've_ known, if he'd been paying more attention. If he'd been paying any attention at all.

Lovett reaches up and scratches his neck. There's a hickey there Jon left the other night. The color is starting to fade, but the skin still itches from the phantom sting of his teeth.

"It's good that we did this, actually," Jon mutters, and his voice is all wrong, too smooth, none of the warmth Lovett usually associates with it left. "You know? Before I got too, like. I'm already pretty attached to you. I thought this was something you didn't think it was. I thought I was… forget it. So. Good. Cool. I'm glad that you and, uh. I'm glad that you and Tommy hooked up and that it was great. He's great." Jon picks his head back up, but he doesn't make eye contact. "I am going to go say bye to Em."

He's halfway out of the kitchen before he stops himself and turns back around, facing Lovett but not really looking at him.

"Um, I forget. Are you coming with us to the airport tomorrow or are you getting another ride?"

Last he checked, Lovett was getting a ride with Jon and Emily, the way he always does when they travel together. He could take an Uber, or maybe a Lyft. He could bail on going skiing entirely, probably, just make his way to the peaceful farm in Connecticut where Mia's animals and grandchildren probably won't ask him anything more difficult than, "Can you play with me?" or, "Is this game cool?" He can answer those, easy.

When he opens his mouth, he catches himself almost stepping on Jon's, "Don't forget your ID this time, okay?" joke. 

The forced laugh he tacks onto the end of it makes the awkwardness in the room even thicker. Lovett cracks his knuckles, just to do something with his hands, and then moves on to picking at a loose seam on his pants when that doesn't do the trick. He's bad at sitting still under normal circumstances, but this is ten times worse.

"What did you mean when you said, ah." When Lovett opened his mouth he didn't know what he was going to say, and he falters now, chewing on his lower lip for a moment. "'I thought I was'... what? Don't start sentences if you don't intend to finish them."

Jon freezes in place. He's so much closer than he had been, but even though Lovett's kitchen is tiny, he can feel every inch of the distance between them. 

"Um," Jon says, unusually tentative. Lovett watches as it happens. Less explosive than a car crash, but maybe more detrimental to him, personally. "I'm in love with you." The words are soft and quiet, but he sounds sure. "I know you—you don't want that. I thought that we hashed this out over the weekend. You and me, and Emily. I thought we were on the same page, and it's okay that we're not, it's _okay_ if that's not what you were looking for. I just wish you had told me, so that I could have been prepared." The corner of his mouth rises into a grim smile. "I love you, Lovett, but sometimes it sure is hard to like you."

Lovett squeezes his eyes shut and—honest to God—loses time for a dizzying moment, the buzz in his ears getting louder. His hip connects with the counter as he sways forward, and then he hears the front door of the house open and shut as panic twists tight around his throat.

Jon's never left him before. Not like this. Lovett's always the one leaving, running away, too afraid to properly face his problems and his fears, and now he can't even move, rooted pathetically to the linoleum floor beneath his feet.

He's still standing in the kitchen when he hears footsteps padding down the hallway. Emily enters a moment later carrying Pundit in her arms like a baby, bopping her up and down.

"Hello," Lovett says, and somehow his voice comes out level. "Did you finish? Jon left."

"I did finish, against all odds," Emily says, sounding smug. "And no, he didn't. He just texted me to say he was outside getting some air."

"I—okay." That doesn't really make him feel better. He doesn't know how to say, _Emily, I think I really fucked up, and I should've seen it coming a mile away, but I didn't, I didn't do a thing to stop it_ —doesn't know how to say it without using those exact words, anyway. What comes out instead, after he clears his throat, is: "Jon said he loved me." Emily stares at him for a minute, a _yeah, and?_ expression on her face, and he rolls back a little and amends the phrase. "Jon said he was in love with me. I, uh. I didn't know."

"Lovett," Emily says slowly, her eyes narrowing, mouth pulling into a frown. "You didn't—what?" She bends over to set Pundit at her feet, which is never a good sign. "What did you say to him?"

"What did _I_ say?" he asks, too high, voice cracking. "Me? What about what _he_ said?" But even as he's saying it, he remembers: _Maybe we have to renegotiate. I don't think it's just sex for Jon._ She knew, Lovett thinks, heart sinking into the pit of his stomach. The signs were all there. _Just return him unbroken, and we'll call it a job well done_ , she said at the holiday party, the night they started all this, and Lovett couldn't even do that right.

She's still watching him, brow furrowed, like she's waiting for something. What exactly it is, he can't be sure. Lovett shifts on his feet, tucks his hands in the pockets of his sweats, and she shakes her head. 

"You can be a real piece of work sometimes, Lovett," she says, flat, toneless, and he knew this was coming, has been bracing for it since—hell, since Ronan called him last Monday and mumbled, _I think I said something to Emily, maybe…_

He just never thought it would be for a reason like this, that it would shake out quite this way. In the span of minutes, he's managed to ruin two of his best things. Two of his best people. Points for efficiency, or something.

Lovett takes a deep breath, shuddering through it, and feels Pundit pawing at his foot.

"I didn't do anything," he tries, because regardless of circumstance, facts are facts. "I told him it was still casual for me, and he—he flipped out. He yelled."

They've spent a lot of time together over the years. Emily's young, eager smiles were easy to gravitate to, those first few months when she and Jon were getting to know each other, and she didn't fit in as well with Michael and Cody and Tommy. They were outsiders, the both of them, and it didn't matter how long Lovett had been part of the team, he'd always felt different. He'd always _been_ different, and Emily, with her bright laugh and boundless kindness, had made him feel less alone, even though that was supposed to have been his job.

"He yelled," she says, voice sharp. She doesn't ask any follow up questions, staring at him coolly from behind her trendy, thick-framed glasses.

"You know how he is," Lovett says, wishing he could be anywhere else, talking about literally anything else. He looks down at Pundit who could be doing him a solid and breaking the silence any time now, but she ignores him, wandering into the other room where he watches as she chews on the fraying edge of the curtain.

"Yeah," Emily says, dragging his attention back, like he could have possibly forgotten what they're doing here, what he might be losing. "I do know how he is. I know he never yells. I know he'd never yell at _you_ , so tell me exactly what he said, Lovett. Tell me what you did, so I can go and help fix it."

"It wasn't supposed to be this serious," Lovett says, because he's never met a situation he couldn't put his foot in. "He can't possibly mean it." He doesn't even sound like he believes it.

"Has he ever lied about something like that? Have you ever known him to lie at all? Lovett." He watches as she closes her eyes, pressing her lips together tightly. When she opens them again, she says, "I can't tell if this is selfishness, or self-sabotage, or you really don't feel that way about him. If you don't, then fine. This is for the best."

"Like a bandaid," Lovett says, even though he's pretty sure she hasn't given him permission to speak. "Maybe it's just best if we—if we rip it off. End it here."

"Maybe." Emily's not looking at him when he flicks his eyes to her, but the corner of her mouth is quirked up, like maybe she won't hate him forever. "Jon, you didn't answer my question."

"You didn't ask me a question."

She's going to say something else; he can see it in the set of her shoulders, but her phone buzzes before she can, and she's tugging it out to check her messages. He can tell it's from it's from Jon, because her face gets soft, and then exasperated, and then soft all over again. She's wiping at her eyes with her thumb when she says, "He's telling me to be nice to you."

Lovett freezes. His whole body is slowly filling with stone, he's pretty sure. Soon enough, he'll be rooted to this spot forever. "Wh—um. What?"

Emily holds up her phone, quick enough for him to see—

**Jon, 6:58pm**  
_Go easy on him, please, ok? It's not his fault._

Lovett tries to swallow, but he can't. He tries to breathe, but he can't. He can't move. He can't think. He says, "Fuck," and feels his shoulders slump, leaning so hard against the breakfast bar that it clips him in the stomach. It's what he deserves, probably.

"Listen, I gotta go," Em says, jiggling her house keys and pushing her phone back in her pocket.

A really self destructive asshole would let her. Lovett has been that guy before. He knows what it feels like, always avoiding the hard conversations, shying away from saying anything too revealing, refusing to flip over the rock for fear of what he might find underneath it. He could so easily be that guy again. When he closes his eyes, he can imagine Jon sitting on his front steps texting his wife to remind her to be kind, in the middle of his own fucking heartbreak.

"Emily," he says. "I do. Too. Also. Neither of you were wrong, okay? I'm—I told you before, I told both of you that I'm not good at this. I'm not big enough to hold it, but I'm trying. I'm going to try. Honesty. Feelings. All that garbage from here on out, okay? You thought I talked a lot before, well. You had another thing coming, didn't you?"

"You do too," she says. She looks skeptical.

"I love him," Lovett whispers. It feels strange and clunky in his mouth, finally saying it out loud. "Em, I really do." He rubs one hand against his sternum, too breathless to laugh, cry, do anything. "Jesus," he says. "I feel like my chest is cracking open."

She blinks at him, takes one step closer and punches him hard. "If you broke him, I will feel no remorse in breaking you," she says, but she's smiling a little, warmer than before at least. "You should go talk to him. Reveal your secrets."

"Uh," Lovett says, indecision crawling through his bones again. "Are you really sure now is the time for this? We're going on vacation tomorrow. Tommy and Hanna are—"

"Now," Emily says, stern, but she's having a hard time keeping a straight face. "Go, Lovett. I mean it."

Lovett ducks on his way out toward the entrance, scooping Pundit up in his arms. Nothing wrong with a therapy dog for a little courage. He slips his feet in one pair of sneakers at the door, and then another, and then back, and then—has to admit to himself that this is a new low of dithering, even for him. Fuck. Sometimes the only way out is through.

Jon jumps when Lovett finally pushes onto the front porch. His eyes are a little shiny under the lone light hung above the doorway, which makes Lovett's chest clench like a vise. It's a tight squeeze for two of them sitting side by side on the steps, but Lovett sinks down anyway, their elbows brushing, Pundit nosing over to sniff at Jon's arm.

"You stayed," Lovett points out inanely.

"Didn't know where else to go," Jon says. "Both of my, um. Two of my people are here." He sounds tired, and—Lovett's heard what Jon's sounded like post-State of the Union, post-bachelor party weekend, exhausted after weeks of touring. This is different, a sort of bone-deep weariness that seems to draw all the strength right out of him. Lovett did that. Now that they're here—now that it's happened—Lovett doesn't actually feel very vindicated. Mostly, he just feels tired, too.

"I am going to say some things," Lovett murmurs, running his hands through Pundit's fur, "and I hope they make sense, and then we don't ever have to talk about them again." Jon turns to look at him, mouth opening, and Lovett shakes his head. "Don't interrupt. Just let me—if you interrupt, I'm never going to be able to get it all out, and then you'll never get to hear any of it."

Jon clamps his mouth shut again. Lovett smiles, can't help the small, tight twitch, and forges on.

"So I don't really know what it's like up in your impenetrable towers of heteronormativity," he says, which might not be the best place to start, but it's what he's got. He stares out into the dark street for a minute, because that's easier than looking at the expression that crosses Jon's face. "Look, I just—I've known I liked boys since I was thirteen, fourteen, right? Probably before that, if we're being honest, before I could really acknowledge it, or understand it. And there was a substantial period of time in middle school and high school and, and even later, where I didn't think I'd ever get to be happy and in love and totally free, not the way I wanted to be. Not the way the movies always showed it. I was sitting in chemistry class and band and math, just hoping to get through the day without someone pushing me into a locker or dunking one of my textbooks in a water fountain, watching all my peers date and kiss and hold hands in the cafeteria during lunch. And it just kind of—it sucked. It crushed me, you know? Gay angst. Whatever. It's not an excuse, but it's a reason. For why I am the way I am."

Lovett gives a little self-conscious shrug, and out of the corner of his eye, he watches Jon's hand come out to settle against his knee, warm and close. God, Lovett came out here to try to make _Jon_ feel better, and Jon's still—still like this.

"But college was better," Lovett continues, scratching at Pundit's neck. "And being a working adult sucked less than I thought it would. And then I got to the White House, became unlikely friends with you all, and I met Ronan, and I thought, shit, this is it. This is the pinnacle, for me. I've got everything I could ever dream of wanting, I can move out and try my hand at writing in Hollywood, and it doesn't even matter that Ronan's almost always at least three time zones away. Doesn't matter that we live on opposite sides of the country. Everything about my adult life has already exceeded expectations. Why would I—I don't need anything else. I shouldn't have to want anything else." He pauses, swallowing around the lump in his throat, and brushes his knuckles against his left eye, scrubs furiously.

"Lovett," Jon says, low.

"No, you need to hear this," Lovett says, and part of what he means is _I need to say this_ , but he thinks: Jon probably gets it. "Some days I wake up and I still think: God, I'm the luckiest person alive. How did I manage to fail up all the way here?" Jon makes a noise, and Lovett shakes his head again. "It's difficult to be honest about what I want when I don't think I'll ever get it, or because of some fucked up belief that deep down I don't really deserve it. I hear you say, _you know I'm in love with you_ , and setting aside anything about what that means between you and Emily, I can barely begin to conceptualize what it actually means for me. You have to understand that it's hard to believe. And it's not just because it's _you_. For a long time I didn't think I'd have the opportunity to be in love with anyone, and to have them love me back. And now I've had it, for six years, but I still carry some of that weight around with me. I don't know if it'll ever be gone." Lovett leans sideways against the frame of the open gate, exhaling into the chilly evening air. "So you can imagine how fucking unnerving it is to reach the ripe old age of thirty-five and abruptly realize that you might have the capacity to be in love with more than one person."

Jon inhales sharply. Lovett blinks, too rapid. He feels wrung out, throat scraped raw, the brief shot of adrenaline from trying to get all of this out at once fading fast.

"Anyway," Lovett finishes lamely. "That's it."

Jon takes a beat. Another breath. He's compiling his thoughts in a dizzying order, Lovett knows. He wipes at his face with his free hand and says, "When I said I was jealous, I didn't mean I was jealous of Tommy."

Lovett can't help it when he says, "Yeah, well. If last night proves anything, it's that we'd both like to—"

"Lovett," Jon cuts in, squeezing his fingers against Lovett's knee. "I wasn't. I love Emily. What I feel for you, it's not the same, but it's not all that different. It wouldn't be fair to either of you for me to waste my time being jealous of you being with other people. That's not what I meant."

"Okay," Lovett says. "What did you mean?"

Jon gazes at him with so much easy, open affection on his face that he's almost hard to look at. "I mean, I was jealous that I didn't know. I want to know all the stuff you want to try. I want to help. I want," he ducks his head suddenly, but even in the darkness, Lovett can see the way his ears are burning. "I want to be as much a part of this as you'll let me. I want us to be together. That's what I meant." He looks up through his eyelashes, throat clenching and releasing as he swallows. "Tommy should—he should be able to have what he wants, too. Just as much as either of us. It's up to you, Lovett. If I still get you when you let me get you, and the other stuff is whatever."

"Can you," Lovett says through clenched teeth. "Say it again?"

To his credit, Jon doesn't pretend to misunderstand. He winds his arm around Lovett's shoulders and pulls him closer, lips brushing the top of his head as he says, "I'm in love with you, man. So much that it's pretty gross. Overwhelming."

"Yeah," Lovett says, tugging at the hem of Jon's shirt to give his hands something to do again. "Um. Like I've said, I don't really know how to do casual, Jon. So. Me too. Obviously me too."

"Didn't seem very obvious from where I'm sitting," Jon says, but he doesn't move his arm, and he doesn't sound angry anymore. He could. It's not his fault Lovett's bad at talking about this stuff, but he doesn't. "I _like_ that you're bad at being casual."

"I can't make any promises," Lovett says, halting, "but I do want to try to be better. About being honest about the things I want, instead of self-sabotaging every good thing in my life. It's a work in progress."

The corner of Jon's mouth twitches. "That's good. I'm glad you came out after me. I thought..."

"What?" Lovett asks. He feels very parched, voice scratchy.

Jon doesn't laugh the way he usually does, laughs quieter and more subdued, but that glimmer of good humor is still lurking beneath the surface. "Thought I might have to remote in for a while. Maybe spend some time at the Blacks' place up in Maine. Get you out of my system. It's like a phantom ache, you know? Loving somebody and not being able to have them the way you need to."

 _The way you need to_ , Lovett thinks, and turns his face against Jon's chest so he can cry in peace.

"Hey," Jon mumbles, soft voiced. "Hey, look at me." Lovett wipes his face noisily against Jon's shirt, tries to stay put, at least until Jon says, "Are you—fuck, are you crying?"

"Shut up," Lovett mumbles. "I don't want to hear it."

"You can cry on command. Without proof, I don't think this is particularly impressive, Lovett."

That's what makes him pull back, outraged. As if this is something he would _fake_. “ _Hey_ ,” Lovett says.

”Hey,” Jon repeats, grinning. “I just call it like I see it.”

"Okay," Lovett says, but he's laughing too hard for it to make sense. "That's enough." He doesn't even finish because Jon is kissing him, both hands on Lovett's damp face, holding him in place.

Pundit lets out a startled yip, nosing beneath their chins, and then the front door swings open again. Lovett tries to scoot away, untangle himself, but there's nowhere to go, and Jon keeps his grip firm, cupping Lovett's jaw, his neck, mouth warm and steady.

"Well," Emily says from above them. She sounds exasperated, but when Jon finally lets him go and Lovett looks up, there's a small smile on her face, the round part of her cheek illuminated by the porch light. She leans against the white banister, Leo twining around her legs, and tilts her head. "You've made up, I take it."

"Something like that," Lovett mumbles, and sighs when Jon leans in to brush his mouth against Lovett's neck one more time before getting to his feet, dusting the seat of his pants off.

Lovett scrambles up, too, letting Pundit hop off his lap to circle around the entrance to the house. Emily regards him quietly for a moment, eyes wide and dark, and then leans in to kiss his cheek, just a tiny, light brush of her mouth. It makes Lovett's chest twist.

Jon hooks an arm around Emily's back. "See you tomorrow, Lovett," he says, snapping his fingers for Leo, and then they're on the walkway, the sidewalk, in their cars.

The street feels too empty after they've left. Lovett stands on the front porch and breathes until Pundit starts pawing at the door. In the kitchen, he eats a couple of slices of pizza just for something to do with his hands, and then he ventures down the hall, to his room. His suitcase is still unzipped at the foot of his bed, waiting for any last-minute toiletries he might toss in before they head to the airport tomorrow.

He's considering the merits of two different towels when a FaceTime call from Ronan buzzes through. Lovett accepts it on autopilot, and then freezes. "Hey," Ronan says, and then he must really take a good look at Lovett, because his eyebrows rise. "Are you okay? You look, uh. Honestly, you look shell-shocked. Walk through any war zones today?"

 _Like a bandaid_ , Lovett thinks, rolling his eyes at himself, and says, "I had a chat with Jon today. Just now."

Ronan smirks and says, "Yeah? Did you finally give him the dirty details of last night with Tommy?"

"You're making it sound way more lascivious than it was," Lovett says. "Yeah, I told him. It went fine. Hey, listen—"

"Wait," Ronan says, straightening up. "It went fine? You were freaking out about it. What does 'fine' really mean?"

Now or never, Lovett thinks. "Jon said he might be. Fuck, no. Jon is in love with me." Ronan doesn't gasp, but Lovett watches as he bites his lip on screen. "And I. I don't think I would have ever tapped into it on my own, but I do, uh. I do think I reciprocate. I didn't know I could. I didn't know I had the capacity to do that. Did you know that? Are you, fuck, are you mad?"

Ronan is so still for so long that Lovett is pretty sure their connection shorted out. When he moves again, he's smiling tentatively. "So you're in love with Jon," he says.

"I. Guess. Yes?"

"Are you still, ah. And you still feel that way about me too?"

Lovett has often caught himself marveling at how old Ronan's soul seems to be in contrast with how painfully young his features are. He moves so fast the phone almost falls out of his hands. "Ronan, no. Of course I do. I've loved you for so long, it's a part of me now. I am so, so fucking in love with you." He sucks in a breath, lets it out fast, rubbing his knuckles against the corners of his eyes, which are wet again, Jesus. "Fuck, I wish you were here. I wish you were coming to this stupid cabin, so I could show you. So we could just sit next to each other. I want to hold your hand."

"Yeah, well," Ronan says, breaking through Lovett's nervous chatter. "I want to suck your dick. But at least we'd be touching in both scenarios."

"I love you," Lovett blurts on a laugh. His eyes are burning again, throat aching from the dumb tears and from trying to keep in the giggles.

"Love you too," Ronan says, and even through the screen, Lovett can tell his eyes are twinkling. 

"Are you _laughing_ at me?"

Ronan says, "You're funny," and Lovett is outraged, he is, but he also can't stop laughing, either, the mirth and the tears making his face and throat and awful mess.

"Well, this is disgusting," he says. "Honestly, we don't have to spend a lot of time talking about this, but Ronan. Jon said he was in love. With me."

"And you're in love with him," Ronan says, matter of fact. "What, should I pretend to be surprised?" he asks. It's a harsh thing to say, but his _tone_ isn't harsh. His gaze isn't harsh, eyes soft, chin tucked in his hand. "Jonathan, I've seen the way you look at them."

Lovett is already shaking his head before he bursts in with, "You can't—that's not fair. You can't. I wasn't looking, aside from, you know, there's my good friend Tommy, he looks nice in that color, or, fuck, Favreau didn't put product in his hair this morning, and those graying temples are really hitting well with the Baby Boomer contingent. I have eyes. I'm not an idiot, but I wasn't _looking_."

He feels panicky and shrill in a way that he hates, but he can't help it. He's emphatic because it's true. Some impulses are worth ignoring if their examination is worse overall for the greater good.

"Okay," Ronan says, quiet. "I believe you, but Jon, I've seen them looking at you, too. How about that? It's hard not to see it on Favreau's face."

"Okay, stop," Lovett says slumping forward on the mattress so he can hide his face. It doesn't matter whether he is hidden or not; he can feel his skin flooding with color. "None of that."

"The man just admitted he was in love with you," Ronan counters after a while. "Do you think that popped up out of the blue five days ago when he stuck his dick in you for the first time? Or, maybe… do you think the vibrator is what did it? That kind of closeness absolutely breeds a confession of deep emotion."

Lovett lifts his head enough to say, "Stop," but either Ronan doesn't hear him, or he's choosing not to.

"Baby, do you think Tommy lets just _anybody_ come down his throat?" 

Nothing about tonight has been about Tommy, except for how everything has been. It feels like everything in his life leads back to these three unmovable men he's been surrounded with.

"Okay, can we just," Lovett says, pushing himself up on his elbows and leveling a stare at Ronan through the screen. "Tommy is not—Tommy loves me, okay, I know that. Tommy had a good time the other night, Tommy was a _great_ lay, but you can't turn around and say that Tommy has also been hiding years' worth of adoration, Ronan. He isn't. He hasn't been. It wasn't like that. You didn't see it."

"Maybe I didn't see it last night, but to quote you, _I have eyes._ "

"I am lodging an official protest," Lovett says, nearly breathless. "I object." He clears his throat, but that doesn't help. "Can I deal with one earth shattering reality at a time? Please? Ronan, he said he was in love with me."

Lovett's gathered his legs to his chest, chin against his knees when Ronan says, "Yeah, well. I get it. I am too, Jon."

If Lovett's heart does any more flips tonight, he's going to have to drive to the Urgent Care and get it checked. "Ronan."

"I just want you to have everything you want. That's all."

Lovett drapes a hand over his face, can't help the slightly hysterical laugh that puffs out between his fingers. "You know, I really did think, for a moment there, that it was just about the sex."

"Silly you." When Lovett looks at him again, Ronan's shaking his head, but he's smiling, soft and warm, fingers tapping against his cheek. Lovett exhales, loud enough to be heard. "Now, let me see what you've packed for Utah."


	3. Chapter 3

Lovett wakes up with a bloated face and a slight headache, the dehydration hangover he was too lazy to avoid lancing from temple to temple. Somehow, he finds the strength to shuffle into the bathroom, grab his toothbrush and shaving kit, and dump them into his suitcase.

It's half past nine, and when he checks his phone there's a text from Emily saying they'll pick him up within the hour. No mention of last night, though Lovett knows better than to question whether it really happened; his puffy eyelids are enough of a testament to that.

He takes Pundit out after gulping down the last of his orange juice, crouches next to her in the grass while she stretches. "Ready for snow again?" he asks, scratching her stomach. "You've gotten soft over the last year."

She woofs quietly, but is otherwise pretty malleable, always ready to go when she hears the magic words. 

"Em and Jon are coming and then we're getting on a plane," Lovett says, leading her back inside and checking again to make sure her dog bed is in his luggage. He hates checking a bag, but since he's not coming home when the rest of them do, needs must. "You remember planes, right?"

His phone buzzes with a message from Jon to their group chat that says, _LAST MINUTE CHECKLIST:_

_\- Underwear_  
_\- Toothpaste_  
_\- Quip(s)_  
_\- Shampoo (whatever shit you use—I never trust what Air BNB people have on hand.)_  
_\- Sweaters!!!_  
_\- Don't forget your ID, Lovett._  
_\- Swimwear? (They have a hot tub.)_  
_\- Towels_  
_\- Detergent? Maybe we'll just pack a travel set in our bag. Emily, what do you think?_

Lovett texts back, _The cabin people absolutely have their own detergent, Favs._

The response back is immediate. _Yeah, but we don't know them._

It's such a Jon thing to say that Lovett laughs out loud. There's no arguing. His phone buzzes again, a private message from Tommy this time that just says, _So, I talked to Jon._

It could mean anything. So I talked to Jon about sleeping arrangements and we think you should get the bedroom with the bathroom attached, because your boyfriend had to bail on the trip and you deserve a treat. Or, so I talked to Jon and he told me you're in love with each other, and that's pretty crazy, I don't think I want to be involved in that shit. Or—fuck it. 

_Okay. I'm biting. What did you talk to Jon about?_

The man himself texts and says, _Stopped for coffee. The usual?_

 _Yes, please_ , Lovett thumbs back, and then, before he can stop himself: _Love you._

He's going to have to delete this thread and throw his phone into the sea. Or a fire. Something equally stupid and dramatic. Pundit butts her head against his calf, as if to say, "You're vibrating. Calm down! Vacation!"

 _I love you_ , Jon sends back, plain and simple. _See you in seven minutes, give or take_.

In the time it takes for Lovett to muffle a scream into the meat of his arm, Tommy has sent another message. _Hanna and I don't really use condoms anymore_ , he's written, which is such a startling breach of privacy that Lovett nearly drops the phone. _So if you're interested in a repeat of the other night, or maybe something else, plan on bringing some._

Which means… which means… fuck. "Fuck." Pundit barks a staccato response. He yanks open the bedside drawer and scoops out a string of them, stuffs them in the bottom of his carry-on, beneath the two pairs of heat absorbent ski socks Emily bought for him. "Fuck," he says again, looking down at his phone where Tommy and Jon have sent, independently of each other, _Don't forget your ID!_

As if on cue, his phone buzzes again, Ronan now: _Don't forget your license. Last time I saw it, it was in in your wallet, behind that Chipotle gift card Mia sent for Hanukkah._

A minute later he hears a honk from outside, and then his phone is ringing with a call from Emily's number, "Hi," she says. "We're outside. We have coffee. Don't forget your ID."

"You forget your passport one damn time," he mutters, reaching for his wallet on the nightstand and checking—for the third time—to make sure his license is where it should be. "I'm not a child."

"Could've fooled me," Em says cheerfully. "Come on, let's go. There'll be traffic." She doesn't say goodbye before she hangs up.

He whistles for Pundit and scoops her up. Jon has the Audi's trunk popped when they get outside, and he says, "Hey, babe," before Lovett's eyes have even adjusted to the bright sunlight. "Need a hand?"

Lovett's gut instinct is to say no, that he can handle it, but Jon's looking at him like he always does, except Lovett knows what it means now, and—he's supposed to be trying to be better about this. "Yes," Lovett says, handing Pundit over and getting the unexpected pleasure of Jon's fingers against his back. Jon leans in quick, more of a peck than anything, but the gentleness takes Lovett by surprise. Lovett moans without meaning to, and it's only because of Pundit's disgruntled huff between them that he remembers himself. 

They're in broad daylight. He can feel the rebuke behind his teeth. He stops himself from leaning into his baser instincts and smiles instead. Baby steps.

"Good morning," Jon says, smirking, like he knows what Lovett's been thinking.

Lovett flicks his tongue over his lips. He can vaguely taste Jon's minty gum, or maybe that's his mouthwash. It should be gross, but it isn't. 

Emily doesn't honk, but she singsongs, "Airport traffic," just loud enough to get him moving. 

Jon doesn't hover either, taking Pundit and Lovett's suitcase to the car while Lovett locks the door, leaning against it for a minute to try and remember if there's anything he's left behind.

In the backseat, he says, "If someone—not me—but someone forgot their charging cable, do you think we'd find a spare somewhere? Maybe there's an Apple store in Park City."

"You could always share," Em says, flashing him a smile in the rearview. "Now that you've joined the rest of us in support of our Apple overlords."

In his pocket, his phone buzzes. _On your way?_ Ronan sends.

Lovett snaps a photo of Em and Jon's arms, the way their elbows are brushed together, fingers loosely tangled over the gear shift. _Riding in with the happy couple_ , he sends.

 _Throuple?_ , Ronan sends back. He adds the winky emoji.

 _Quadrangle?_ , Lovett ends back. _Does it count as four if Emily's dick is silicone?_

 _Does she do that?_ Ronan sends back, after a bit of a pause. _That tracks, I guess._

_You GUESS?_

_You know I'm not discriminatory about that kind of thing._

Lovett thinks about Emily's soft smiles, her soft heart, and the steely determination she protects Jon with. How Jon's face had turned pink when he'd mumbled about Emily having fucked him before, that she'd taken care of him that way. Their lives are so intertwined already. Maybe it would be easy. 

_One thing at a time_ , he sends Ronan. _How about we try and keep the life altering changes to a minimum until you're around again, huh?_

 _Whatever you want_ , Ronan says, the same, supportive refrain. _I want whatever you want._

 _What about what you want?_ Lovett sends, flicking his gaze up and tuning in to Jon and Emily's conversation. 

They're chatting easily; Jon remembered to pack sunscreen, but he can't remember which of the bottles he'd thrown in their bag.

"It's the travel one," he says, gesturing with his free hand. Lovett can only see part of his face, the slope of his cheek, his close cropped haircut and the curve of his ear.

It's ridiculous that he's so beautiful, just casually existing in the world, and that Lovett can touch him if he wants. It's ridiculous that they're in _love_ , that Jon loves him. That he's been—what? Yearning, maybe. 

_What does that mean?_ Ronan sends back. _It's not altruism, Jon. I get off when I know you're enjoying yourself._

Lovett keeps his gaze forward as he types, _I don't think I want to get fucked by a woman with a strap-on again, but you've done it and you like it. I don't know if Emily would go for it, but_ he stops writing for a second, leaning back against the warm leather trying to think. _Jon told me she's done it before. For him. With him. So I could ask her. We could ask her. Involve her. I bet she'd like that. I like watching you fall apart. Maybe I want to watch you fall apart for her._

He sends the text and then shoves the iPhone under the meat of his thigh so he won't look at it, exhaling loudly. He feels too hot under his collar. Jon peeks back at him over his shoulder, brows raised above his RayBans.

"What?" he says.

"I think they were both travel sized," Em says, finishing her thought. "I'm also pretty sure that in a pinch, you can put face sunscreen on the rest of your body, but I don't know if you should put regular sunscreen on your face. I don't think you're supposed to. Jon, look it up."

"Yeah, I read that somewhere," Lovett says, even though that's a lie. He's heard it somewhere. Or maybe he's heard the exact opposite. "I'll google to make sure."

"At least one of my Jons listens to me." She winks at him in the rearview.

Jon says, "You okay?" He reaches back, fingers briefly squeezing against Lovett's bare knee. "How are you doing?"

"Great," Lovett says, smiling with all his teeth. "Just peachy."

"If you wanted to indulge in road head, you should've sat in the back," Emily says, casually filthy.

"I mean," Jon says, an intriguing expression flickering over his face. He lets go of Lovett and reaches over playfully to touch two fingers to the hem of Emily's loose yoga pants. She hisses when he dips the tips in, rubbing against her skin. Her hands slip a little on the wheel.

Lovett coughs. "I think I object less to the brazen heterosexuality on display in this car and more about the fact that I don't actually want to die in a crash on the way to the airport." Emily laughs, a breathless little trill. "No road head, no road anything."

"Prude," she teases, eyes sparkling as she meets his through the rearview mirror, and then Lovett's laughing too, so loud he wakes Pundit from her snooze. She woofs at him in reproach, butting her head against his knee. "It's not fair you got to bring your dog." Apparently the dubious sexual escapades have been put aside for a moment. "Who will Jon cuddle with on the plane?"

Pundit isn't the same as Leo, despite their familial connection. Her energy is different; she's more tense, but she loves Jon with a single-minded focus, almost as much as she loves Lovett. 

"Don't even get me started on how he was when we left him last night," Jon says, and Lovett watches his hands as he wipes beneath the frames of his glasses with his thumb. 

"Andy sent a time-lapse collage of Leo standing by the door. He's going to have to sleep and eat eventually, but dollars to doughnuts, I bet that's the position he stays in until we pick him up next week."

"You can hang on to Pundit," Lovett says, exhaling loudly and inwardly cursing the blush exploding across his skin. "On the plane. She's not a nervous flyer," he adds, like somehow, they might not know. "She's good at sensing the mood."

"Aw, Pundo," Jon says, fond, and then Lovett feels his phone buzz again beneath his leg. He tries to keep his shoulders loose as he fishes it out. _Oh my God_ , Ronan's replied, _You're offering me Emily and Tommy? You can't just say things like that in the middle of a work day, Jonathan._

Lovett bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling too hard. _Hey_ , he returns. _You could've been en route to Utah right now too, if you didn't have "work". Just saying._

Ronan sends back a string of pouting emojis. _I DO have work. I don't want to miss this. You know that._

 _I know_ , Lovett sends back. _But just because I understand why you're skipping out doesn't mean I'm going to stop giving you shit for it. Them's the rules._

When Lovett looks up from his phone at the next light, Emily catches his gaze in the mirror again, eyes crinkled like she can tell, just by the sudden silence in the car, what's going on in his head. Lovett doesn't know how to feel about that, neck prickling with heat.

"Ronan's mad I'm sending him vacation updates while he's at work," he says, because it's technically true.

Jon laughs from the front seat. "Not too late to meet us in Park City."

"'Not too late to join little old me, all alone in a king-sized bed because the Favreaus have stolen my dog'," Lovett says, miming typing into his messages.

"You aren't gonna be _alone_ ," Emily and Jon say together, doubly emphatic, and Lovett ducks his head, pleased, as Emily laughs and continues, "Good point about Pundit, though."

"I bet Tom's got his baby Lucca Instagram posts all lined up and ready to go," Jon says, dry.

"You're all embarrassing dog parents," Lovett says, and the conversation devolves into potshots about Leo and Lucca's social media personas until they pull into the overnight parking lot.

;;

Lovett has traveled in and out of LAX frequently enough that he knows security is always a crapshoot. Luckily, nothing goes wrong this time, even with Tommy chugging the last of his protein shake right before they have to step through the metal detectors. They're early, but not early enough for it to be a drag. Not even the dog bed in his luggage made his bag slide over the allotted weight.

The gate isn't too crowded yet, so they find two rows of empty seats to hang out in. Pundit takes a second to research her new surroundings, looking up at him after a minute of lazy circling as if to say, "Really? This is the outside you promised me?"

"I would murder somebody for an egg sandwich," Hanna says, a while after they've gotten settled. Pundit woofs, and Hanna leans down to ruffle her fur. "Obviously I'll share, Pundit."

"She—" Lovett starts, but Tommy cuts him off. 

"Doesn't speak English," he finishes.

Hanna narrows her eyes, and says, "Sorry, what?"

Tommy lifts his palms in surrender and says, "Hey, hey, don't kill the messenger. I stepped in front of the bullet so Lovett wouldn't say it. Baby, I _saved_ you."

Hanna bites her lip to keep from laughing, but Emily can't seem to stop herself. "Tommy's not wrong," she says, dropping her arm and getting to her feet. "Lovett is weirdly discriminatory when it comes to my passion project: MENSA but for dogs."

Jon, Tommy and Hanna laugh when Lovett says, "Hey, I'm not calling my dog _stupid_ , come on, she's the daughter of a genius and a former lawyer. She'd be at the top of the track. What I have always maintained is that dogs have a language, and that language isn't English."

"Hey, Pundit," Jon says from a few seats over. "Sit."

Pundit doesn't even do Lovett the favor of pretending to be confused, making her way up to Jon's legs and dropping down in front of him.

"Good girl," Jon says, the corners of his mouth curling, and reaches out to lift her up into his lap.

Lovett rolls his eyes and, for once, decides to quit while he's ahead. He goes back to his phone, typing out a quick _through security_ to send to Ronan, and then flips through some of his mentions on Twitter. Over the intercom, the soothing low tones of one of the gate agents reads out a list of people that should report to Gate 23.

 _Don't join the mile high club without me_ , Ronan sends back, and Lovett's rolling his eyes when he glances up again. Across from him, Emily's looking through her phone too, head tilted against Jon's shoulder, free hand stroking soothingly down his forearm.

Jon, for his part, seems like he's doing his best to try and relax—which is to say not well at all, even with Pundit wedged between his legs. The intercom clicks on again, this time to announce that a flight to Seattle has been forestalled due to flurries in the north. Lovett watches Jon's knuckles turn white as his hands clench into fists.

 _Is it too soon for him to take half a Xanax for the flight?_ Lovett sends Emily, and she glances up through her lashes and winces.

 _Flight isn't long enough for the heavy duty stuff._ A moment later, she adds, _There are other ways to distract him, though_ , with a smirking emoji, and when Lovett's head snaps up, she's staring down at her phone again, the corner of her mouth twitching.

In his text message to Ronan, Lovett taps out _can't believe you've forgotten about that time we flew from New York to Stockholm_ , and then he hops off his seat.

"Hey," he says meaningfully, shuffling over to nudge at Jon's foot. "I'm gonna run to the bathroom. You wanna come?"

Jon lifts his head, eyes sharp. Lovett shrugs, turning on his heel. Tommy looks between them, fingers playing with the open book in his lap, and says, casual as anything, "Sure you don't need an extra hand?"

Lovett huffs, thrown off balance, at the same time Hanna shakes her head, digs her elbow in Tommy's side, and says, equally casual, "I thought it was girls who were supposed to go to the bathroom in packs."

"We're leaving now," Lovett says loudly, hot around the collar of his shirt. His phone buzzes as he makes a beeline for the nearest bathroom. _Don't renew your membership, then_ , Ronan's sent.

The men's room isn't directly across from them, so they have to walk back down the hallway aways. The gate has started getting more crowded, but it's still nowhere near as packed as he's seen it. Their arms brush together every other step and he can feel how stiffly Jon is holding himself.

"Okay," he says, as they turn into the empty bathroom. The door to the handicapped stall is standing ajar, and Lovett pushes Jon toward it, hand on the small of his back.

"What," Jon says, but a flush is starting to creep back into his pale cheeks. "I thought it was weird that you wanted a bathroom buddy, but I didn't think—"

"Don't think," Lovett says, locking the door behind them, and pushing Jon against it. He leans up and brushes their mouths together, and the way Jon immediately melts into it is enough to get his blood boiling. "What can I do for you," Lovett says, the words bumping up against Jon's mouth.

Jon swallows, hands on Lovett's shoulders. He looks to the left, his mouth pink and gasping, his eyes a little glassy, but he's still tense all over, like his body just won't let him forget what they're about to do.

"If you could do anything you wanted right now," Lovett says, "what would it be?"

"Not get on a fucking plane," Jon mumbles, but he tilts his head so their mouths can slide together again. "I want to go. I know it'll probably be fine, I just hate it."

That's the thing about fear, Lovett is pretty sure. You can look it right in the face and acknowledge it as a weakness and still not be ready to take the leap to vanquish it. Any way you look at it, fear is real, and brains are stupid. Lovett would know; he's been holding onto his own hang-ups for long enough.

"Jon," Lovett says, tapping him lightly on the cheek. "We're in a bathroom alone together, and our friends are waiting for us down the hall. If you could do anything to—to _me_ , right now, what would it be?"

"To you, or with you?" Jon asks, considering. He's dropped one of his palms from Lovett's arm to tangle their fingers together. This is what it's going to be like for as long as this goes, probably. Jon holding his hand just because he wants to. 

"We don't have time to get creative," Lovett says, "but if you've got, I don't know. You've trolled through Men.com. If you want me to wear a hard hat while you rail me on some hot concrete, just, I don't know. Give me enough of a heads up that I can send one of the interns out to a costume shop."

"That's certainly a visual," Jon says, smiling a little, and pressing his thumb to the corner of Lovett's mouth. It's not a push; Jon is the opposite of an aggressive guy, but it's an opportunity to show off, and Lovett's never met one of those he didn't like.

He leans in, licking the tip of Jon's thumb, and then sucking it into his mouth. It should be gross, or at least, it should be less _sensual_ , but of course, with Jon, everything is ramped up to a thousand. His skin is clean and tastes vaguely familiar. Lovett peeks up at him through his lashes just to see what reaction he'll get, and Jon doesn't disappoint, already gasping.

When Lovett bumps their hips together, he can tell Jon's started to get hard, which is gratifying in and of itself.

"I've, um," Jon says, blinking, when Lovett steps back and lets go of his thumb. "Role play isn't really my thing, but I'll…" he trails off, just looking at Lovett, like just the shape of him is enough to calm his pulsing nerves. "I'll work on it. I'll try anything if it's something you're into."

"Anything," Lovett says, can't help testing it. He opens his mouth to throw out a string of increasingly ridiculous things just to see if Jon will go along, but his phone buzzes in his pocket.

Emily has sent, _Twenty minutes to boarding, so take your time, but also heads up._

"We should get back out there, probably, right?" Jon asks. He doesn't look entirely as shaken as before, but the unease is still there, hanging out just beneath the surface.

"I want to give you an orgasm so good that you fall asleep before we even get on the plane." Lovett watches the way Jon looks like he's going to argue about logistics, like: who will carry me back to the gate? And: because it obviously it won't be you.

"Okay," Jon agrees. "Okay. I would obviously like that also."

"So tell me what you want!" Lovett hisses, ducking close so that his voice won't carry. 

He can vaguely hear voices on the other end of the bathroom. Keeping his voice down isn't going to keep people from seeing two sets of feet, but it might keep their privacy a little longer.

"I," Jon mumbles. He breathes. "Give me a handjob and tell me you love me," he says. His voice is so quiet, Lovett almost has to strain to hear. "That's probably the, uh. The thing I think about the most. Having all of your attention on me and hearing you say it."

"Oh," Lovett says, feeling like the breath has been punched right out of him. It's so Jon. It's _so_ Jon to ask for this simple, small thing that will wreck them both in its sincerity. "You don't really know how to do this dirty talk thing super well, huh?"

Jon stares him down, apparently not embarrassed in the least. He says, "Do you want dirty talk? I can probably figure it out."

Do you want. How can I. Whatever you want. What do you need. Lovett is not blind to the fact that the people in his life bend to his whims more often than not. He tries not to exploit their kindness, their _love_ , but sometimes it's hard, as an inherently selfish person, not to take what's on offer.

"I want to do this for you," Lovett says, leaning in and unbuckling Jon's jeans one-handed. "I am going to—to love you so hard you can't see straight."

Jon's mouth twitches. "This is the opposite of straight, Lovett."

"Shut up," Lovett hisses, but he's laughing as spits, wetting his hand so he can wrap it around Jon's dick. Jon laughs too, at least until, the giggles fade into a low, drawn out groan. "I," he mumbles, twisting his wrist gracelessly. "Jon, you have no idea."

"So tell me, please." Jon's eyes narrow into slits, teeth digging against his bottom lip, neck straining, like everything in his body is begging for Lovett to keep going.

"You're so beautiful," Lovett gasps. "Everything about you, and not even just your face, or your shoulders, or your stupid abs." He tightens his fingers, watching Jon's face. "Your heart is so fucking big it scares me sometimes." He swallows around the tightness in his throat, the vulnerability of truth revealed. "How could I not—how could anyone not be in love with you, Favs? Knowing you and having all of that love and goodness pouring right back out is the most fucking…"

He gets cut off by Jon's groan and the sudden, surprising wetness of his come spurting heavily between them, dripping down Lovett's knuckles.

"Shit," Lovett says. "That really worked on you. Wow."

Jon shrugs, panting a little. He wipes himself off, tugs up his belt, and zips his jeans. "I can't believe you did it," he says, eyes bright, face pink. "I like what I like, and what I like is—"

"Is it a praise kink? Wait, sorry, of course it's a praise kink. Wow. Gotta reframe every interaction we've ever had now. Thanks, Jon." 

Jon rolls his eyes, but he leans in to kiss Lovett anyway, soft and slow. His shoulders have dropped down from around his ears, which is perhaps more proof that orgasms are a cure all for most ailments.

"I love you," Lovett mumbles against his mouth, and Jon sighs. The look on his face when they break apart makes Lovett feel flayed open, so he turns and pushes out of the stall, taking advantage of the lull in the noise outside. The rest of the bathroom seems empty when he shuffles to the sinks.

From behind him, Jon says, "Are you sure you don't want me to…?"

Their eyes meet in the mirror, and without question, Lovett knows that Jon will do whatever he asks. He's ready for whatever comes next, regardless of the consequences.

"Just, um," Lovett says, clearing his throat. "Just get me back tonight or something, yeah? You know where I'll be."

;;

By the time they take off, Lovett's halfway through a sudoku puzzle in his Sky Magazine. Tommy's got an eye-mask propped on his forehead, earbuds in as he flicks through the first few pages of his book. Hanna's got her nose stuck in a novel, and every so often the lilt of Emily's voice or Jon's laugh floats back from their row, over the whir of air through the cabin.

The flight attendants come by with drinks, and Lovett's sipping on a Diet Coke when Hanna wiggles, lets her book fall down between her thighs and scrubs her palms against her arms, goosebumps raised on her skin. "Need a jacket?" Lovett says, and starts unzipping his hoodie. "You can borrow mine."

"No, it's okay, I came prepared," she replies, leans down to open the bag at her feet. She pulls out a beige cardigan he recognizes, though not because he's seen _Hanna_ wear it before.

"Isn't that Emily's?" he says, tapping his pen against the tray table.

"Yeah," Hanna says. She grins as she shrugs it over her shoulders. "She left it at our house when she slept over the night of the holiday party. Finders keepers, Lovett, you know how it is."

"I do endorse all clothing theft," Lovett agrees, mouth moving on autopilot. His mind stutters for a moment over _slept over_ , even as he thinks—of course. He'd been so caught up in his own shit that he hadn't stopped to think through the implications of Emily leaving with Tommy and Hanna. Maybe they'd just brushed their teeth and turned in—maybe Emily had slept on the couch—but from the look Hanna's giving him, Lovett doesn't think so.

It's not quite as easy to read Hanna. Lovett had moved away by the time she and Emily became roommates, and then, when she and Tommy had finally moved to California, they'd lived six hours north. San Francisco might as well have been on a completely different planet as far as regular socializing was concerned, which was the whole reason they'd moved down in the end. 

Still: to her credit, Hanna's been enthusiastic and energetic and chatty from the jump; _I've heard so much about you! Us short, Jewish brunettes gotta stick together, huh?_ , she'd said, the first time they were introduced at some DC party years ago. Lovett had shrugged helplessly when she'd fallen asleep against his shoulder instead of Tommy's near the end of the night. _Your shoulder is easier to reach_ , Emily pointed out, _closer, you know_ , and Lovett had ruined it by gesticulating too hard while defending his height and jostling Hanna awake again.

Story of his life, really, never learning when to stay put or leave well enough alone. Lovett opens his mouth, trying to figure out what to say to fill the sudden, awkward silence, but Hanna shakes her head, chin propped up, the sleeves of Emily's cardigan bunched around her wrists.

"Whatever you're imagining," Hanna says primly, lips curling, "the real thing was probably ten times filthier."

"Hanna," Lovett says, laughing, palm fluttering to his chest. "Are you calling me a prude?"

"I am calling you," she says, tilting her head as she grasps for the right words, "a gold-star gay," and then they're both giggling into their hands. "Am I wrong?"

"No. No, you aren't." He leans back in his seat, stretching his legs out, and bumps their knees together. "But I guess those things aren't mutually exclusive. I can admit that there are gaps in my fundamental knowledge. Hands-on knowledge?" He makes a face.

Hanna shrugs, eyes sparkling. "I don't know," she says thoughtfully, picking her book up again. "Dicks and vaginas are just very different areas of expertise. I think you and Ronan could probably teach us a thing or two."

Lovett feels a little light-headed when he goes back to his sudoku, too distracted to do much but stare down at the glossy page.

"Hey," he says after a moment, leaning forward to talk to Emily and Jon. "Is it worth it to shell out for WiFi when we're only in the air for another forty minutes? I want to check my messages."

"Can you not talk about the air?" Jon hisses. "Please?"

"It'll probably take about as long," Emily pauses and cuts her eyes to Jon as she finishes with, "as we have left in the trip for you to connect. I know you're Scrooge McDuck back there, but you can wait an hour to scroll through Twitter, can't you?"

"He said forty minutes, but there's really still an hour to go?" Jon says. He doesn't look as sick with nerves as before, but his knuckles are white where he's clutched onto Pundit. "Fuck."

"Want to try closing your eyes?" Em asks softly. "I downloaded that relaxation podcast Molly mentioned last night onto your phone, if you want to give it a go."

Jon digs out his iPhone and earbuds out of the seatback in front of him, but he's frowning when he says, "You know this stuff never works on me."

"I know it hasn't before," she says. "Why not try it again with something new?"

It's an intimate moment, and even though Lovett has flown with them at least fifteen times before, it feels like some new barrier has been breached. It makes something in his chest tighten up and ache. 

Emily glances at him again once Jon is plugged in to the Sleep With Me podcast and says, "Seriously. You can't wait forty minutes to talk to your boyfriend? Are you going to be moping all week?" 

Beside him, Hanna shimmies forward. "Besides, Jon's right here."

On its face, it's a fairly innocuous statement, but Lovett knows what she's implying without even needing to see the twinkle in her eyes.

"Oh," Em says softly. "Boyfriend, really? God, I like the sound of that."

This whole thing has gone so far off the rails, Lovett isn't sure they'll ever get back. He opens his mouth to argue, or to make a joke, but his throat is too dry to get the words out.

"Where does that leave Tommy, though?" Hanna asks on a hum. Next to her, Tommy is zonked out, a hardback about Russian history spread across his broad chest like a blanket.

"What," Lovett says. "What about Tommy?"

"If Ronan's your partner, and Jon's your boyfriend," Hanna says, and her voice is low, but nowhere near low enough that Lovett can pretend to mishear. "Where does that leave Tommy?"

It's a testament to how far gone he is, that Lovett's first impulse isn't to say: Jon is not my boyfriend. Even though they haven't discussed the labels explicitly, he knows where they stand on a fundamental level. Jon loves him. Jon is _in love_ with him, and Lovett magically, inexplicably, overwhelmingly, feels the same.

"Um," Lovett says slowly, trying to buy time, "I'm pretty sure Tommy is _your_ boyfriend. Fiancé. Thing, Hanna. That seems pretty obvious from where I'm sitting."

Hanna rolls her eyes. Lovett looks at Emily to catch if she's seeing this, if she's at all surprised, but she's just staring back at him with big eyes and a shrewd expression.

"You should talk to him about it," Hanna says. She's not as much for casual touching as Emily is, at least not with him, so when she elbows him right in the soft part of his stomach, it's an aggressive surprise. She smiles at his grunt, and it's sugar sweet when she says, "I only know what I've heard, you know, in passing, but if you and Favreau are embarking on some dreamy love affair, and you leave Tommy behind, he's going to be upset, and if you break his heart, I'll break your face."

"Hanna," Lovett says, laughing awkwardly. "On the way to a remote vacation spot is maybe not the best time to admit you're a sleeper agent for the KGB."

"In Russia," she says in an eerily accurate accent, leaning in close while Emily watches on, "You don't fuck country. Country fucks you."

Lovett sits frozen, even while Emily's loud peal of laughter is enough to cause Jon to pop one of his earbuds out and quirk an eye at her. 

"Want to let me in on the joke?" he says, but she's chuckling too hard to even get the words out. 

Instead, she curls over the armrest and against his arm, head perched on his shoulder. Softly, Lovett can hear her say, "I love you, Jon."

Lovett leans back in his seat again, sagging boneless against the headrest, mind going a mile a minute. _He's going to be upset_ , Hanna said, with the conviction of someone who's walked with their partner for so long that they know them like the back of their hand, with the same ferocity with which Emily had forced Lovett out the door last night—and wouldn't Lovett feel the same way, if his and Ronan's positions were switched, if Ronan was stepping off the precipice toward some unknown future? Hasn't Lovett felt the same way, listening to Ronan crying on the phone in a cab on the other side of the country, helpless to do anything but murmur into his ear? He would've burned the rest of the world down if it meant that he could keep Ronan safe.

"I get it," he says, voice wavering, and Hanna tilts her head, raises her eyebrows. "We're not leaving anyone behind." It comes out more confident than he feels, but blind bluffing has gotten him this far. "Nobody's getting _abandoned_."

Hanna's hand drifts over to squeeze Lovett's wrist, brief but warm. "I'm holding you to that," she says, the corner of her mouth rising.

Time passes weirdly on planes, especially on these smaller flights that only go short distances. He zones out while doing his puzzle, hoodie up around his ears, and gets the fright of his life when something pokes him hard in the arm.

"What, Hanna, Jesus, what," he says, looking over. Hanna's asleep, though, hands curled beneath her cheek. She looks comfortable, which is not something Lovett has ever mastered on an airplane, regardless what class they're in.

"Hi," Tommy says. He looks a little rumpled, book tucked in the mesh pocket of Jon's seat. "I'm getting up to pee. Do you have to go?"

"Yeah, I guess. Sure." 

Tommy unfolds himself, and Lovett follows, curling himself easily over Hanna, but losing his balance when he catches his toe on the strap of Tommy's backpack, banging his arm and nearly crashing into the row in front of them.

"That was very graceful," Tommy jokes. "Look out, world. Jon Lovett is coming at you on the ballet circuit next."

"I'm a regular Billy Elliot," Lovett agrees, following Tommy down the cramped aisle, and rubbing his elbow where he'd banged it on Jon's seat.

"You okay?" Tommy asks, leaning against the wall. There's no line at the bathrooms, but both sides are occupied.

"Because of my arm?" Lovett asks. "I think I'll live. You get thrown into enough recycling bins, and you build up a tolerance to the typical scrapes and bruises mere mortals succumb to."

Tommy's mouth twitches, but he doesn't laugh. "I want you to know I'm fine," he says, deliberately enough that Lovett can't mistake his intent. "I didn't hear all of what Hanna said to you, but… she worries. Last year, she met someone she really liked, and I don't think I was as prepared for it as I told myself I would be."

 _Met someone_ , Lovett thinks, and the words slot into place when he looks at the pained expression on Tommy's face. "Oh," he says. "Fuck. Why didn't you say something?"

Tommy shrugs. He looks profoundly uncomfortable as he shakes out his shoulders and idly scratches at something invisible on his wrist.

"I would have, probably. We would have. It just didn't really amount to anything," he says eventually. "She's just protective. Of me. Especially after the thing with Jon, so it's a lot of—I don't want you to think you have to include me, like this is third grade and everybody in class absolutely has to get a valentine."

"I'm detecting a chip on your shoulder about this," Lovett says, "but I just want you to know that I bet you were drowning in valentines in grade school, and _I_ , on the other hand, made intimate acquaintance with—"

"Okay, okay, Little Orphan Annie," Tommy says, palms up in surrender. His shoulders are shaking, that's how hard he's trying to keep his laugh under wraps. "I'm just saying, Jon. You don't have to drag me along if I'm just going to be dead weight."

"Insert comparable military reference here," Lovett quips, which is a bit of a miracle, considering what he wants to say, when his brain catches up with him, which is: _what thing with Jon?_

"But I, uh." Tommy takes a deep, gusting breath and says, "I hear congratulations are in order, huh? You and Favs? Figuring your shit out? I told you talking about your feelings would work."

"And here I thought you were some kind of genius, know-it-all guru, Tommy."

Tommy finally laughs, but he doesn't sound particularly amused. "I don't know anything, Lovett. I can tell you that."

If they weren't in view of the whole plane, Lovett would do something wild and reckless like lean up into Tommy and kiss him. Instead, he says, "What Jon thing? Don't tell me Hanna fell in love with him, too."

"No," Tommy says, rolling his eyes. "We, you know. He and I messed around a little bit, a long time ago. Before Katie. Before Jon met Emily. It was, uh." 

He pauses for long enough that Lovett has to say something. "It was _what_?"

Tommy shrugs, but even his posture shows that he's lying. "It was… nothing. A couple of blowjobs and a finger up your ass doesn't make a romance, okay? I know that now."

"Okay, but—"

Tommy shakes his head, clenching his hands so tightly his knuckles go white. "No, there are no 'buts'. I'm not wandering around begging people to like me. Begging Jon to—no."

Lovett can't help the little quirk of his mouth when he says, "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were subtweeting _me_ , Tommy."

Tommy blinks at him in genuine surprise. Lovett laughs and watches as he relaxes in increments, stance widening. "Not everything is about you, Lovett."

"I'll let it slide for now," he says, eyeing the occupied bathroom behind Tommy and willing the person to stay inside for at least the next 90 seconds. "But for the record, this isn't a grade school valentine situation, okay? At least not for me. You're not floating out here all by yourself, you giant, handsome loser. In grade school parlance, _I_ like-like you." It surprises him how easy it is to say, but maybe something about last night with Jon has broken through some dam inside him.

Lovett shifts onto the balls of his feet and then back onto his heels, hands messing with the pockets of his hoodie. Tommy's mouth twists, watching him, and Lovett feels a rush of exasperated affection so strong it almost knocks him over. 

"You like-like me," Tommy says. He looks skeptical. "Are you sure it's not…" He waves his hand, like that can possibly encapsulate everything he's trying to say. "I sleep with people all the time and I don't fall in love with them, but I know that, you know. It's easy to get attached if you aren't used to doing it another way."

The words are harsh, but Tommy isn't. He reaches out and grasps Lovett's wrist briefly before his fingers are gone again. 

"'Doing it another way'," Lovett mocks, "Yes, Tommy, I am _sure_. It's different for me, but I'm not saying—listen, I'm not engraving a wedding invite, okay? I don't need a commitment. But you should know. I love you, and I…"

Tommy smiles. "Did you hit your head back there? Feeling feverish?"

"I am capable of being sincere, Tommy," Lovett grumbles, even though the rush of saying it out loud like this makes him feel a little light-headed. "Don't change the subject. I'm trying to say—the other night, it wasn't just sex for me. I told you, didn't I? I'm not good at no-strings-attached." He glances over his shoulder to where Jon and Emily's heads are tipped together five rows away, and then back at Tommy again. "My sample size is still kind of limited, but I don't really think Jon is, either."

"Lovett," Tommy says softly. "You weren't there. It was a long time ago, and it wasn't like that. It wasn't romantic."

"Tommy," Lovett says, matching his tone, and wrinkles his nose. "Did you even ask him? Did you talk about it?"

Stubbornly, Tommy doesn't answer, which tells Lovett most of what he needs to know. _I will not raise my voice_ , Lovett thinks. _This is none of my business_ , a small, nagging part of his brain whispers, but that isn't right. Not anymore. It _is_ his business. Being intimate with Jon has made it his business. Tommy pulling him aside and spilling decades old secrets in the tight, cramped quarters of the bathroom waiting area of an airplane is what makes it his business.

"You messed around with Jon," Lovett continues, trying to stamp the incredulity out of his voice, "and maybe there were—maybe there was something more, maybe there wasn't—don't look at me like that—and then you both started dating other people, and then you blurred the lines again with Hanna and Emily, but it never occurred to you to tell him, hey, buddy, hey, best friend since the fucking Senate office, I might have some inconvenient feelings for you!"

"Lovett," Tommy repeats, a warning this time, hissed through his teeth, and Lovett wishes he could… God, he wishes he'd purchased the stupid Gogo In-Flight WiFi package, wishes the clock could stop for a moment so he could call Ronan, ask him for advice, yell about the complicated web he's found himself caught in. He always misses Ronan, but times like this, the feeling is like a knife sliding between his ribs and twisting, a palpable ache in his chest. He can't do anything about that right now, though; Tommy's looking down at him, a muscle in his jaw jumping again, going tenser with every passing moment.

"I'm the furthest thing from an expert here, Tommy," Lovett says at last, "but it sure sounds like unfinished business from where I'm standing." He bites his lip and takes a step closer, close enough that he can feel Tommy's body heat radiating off of him, can knock his knuckles against Tommy's hip. "Take your own advice. What was it you told me? Use your words for good."

"I'm not the wordsmith," Tommy points out, but he leans into Lovett's hand, mouth twitching, exhaling slowly.

"Yeah, but you were a spokesperson once," Lovett says, as the bathroom door finally clicks open. "Fake it till you make it, right?"

Tommy drifts toward the empty lavatory. "Maybe I'm just not as brave as you are."

"We both know _that's_ a damn lie," Lovett says, heart beating in his throat. Tommy smiles at him, small and quick, and disappears behind the door.

;;

Lovett feels curiously winded when they finally land in Utah, like he's just run the emotional equivalent of a marathon; he dozes off in backseat of the rental car when they finally pick it up from the lot and wakes up with his head squashed against the window, Pundit a warm weight in his lap.

He does end up getting the room with the en suite, if only because it's the first door he sees. "Honestly, if I have to drag this fucking dog bed any further, I'm going to collapse, and one of you will have to carry me somewhere else."

"I could probably carry you," Tommy says, wryly, but Lovett doesn't bother responding, flipping him off as he pushes into the bedroom and dropping his bags on the dark stained wooden floor.

Pundit noses against his calves, but otherwise doesn't stick around. Apparently the weird mood rolling off him in waves is too potent for even his dog. She pads out of the room and he shuts the door behind her, falling face forward onto the mattress.

For what they're shelling out for this place, the bed better be carved by elves out of the oldest oak, with a Helix mattress and Parachute sheets. He's not sure about the details, but it _is_ comfortable, and he feels himself exhaling into it, smashing his face against the pillows and breathing deep.

He drifts for a bit, half-asleep. At some point the door must open, because he hears the click of Pundit's nails on the floor, someone else's footsteps, feels the bed dip briefly, and the long stretch of a torso before lips glance against the side of his head, the quickest kind of kiss. 

Pundit hops up onto the bed with him after a while, her body burrowing against his side. She falls asleep almost instantly, and he joins her without even realizing it's happening, only waking up again when the phone rings in the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie. 

It's Ronan, which is nice. He thought it might be. "Hi," Lovett says, not bothering to unsmush himself for another moment. "We landed."

Pundit bats at the hem of his sweatshirt, and he flips over onto his back so she can crawl underneath the cotton fabric, poking her head out of the opening and woofing hello at Ronan.

"Well," Ronan says. "Today has been trying to say the least, and seeing the two of you like this is really snapping me out of these doldrums."

Lovett tries for a smile and finds that it comes easier than he was expecting. "You know," he says, gesturing expansively. "This lavish and expensive bedroom and adjoining bathroom could also be yours if you just fly a couple thousand miles to the left."

Ronan smiles. "You know I would if I could."

"Skiing is way better than getting stalked by the Mossad," Lovett says. "Still a lot of swift movement, but at least the physical exertion bills itself as being for fun."

Pundit lets out a staccato woof, like she can truly understand the nuances of his joke, so maybe he should change his mind about whether she can speak English or not after all. "You're terrible," Ronan says, eyes crinkling. "But not wrong. How was the flight?"

"It was fine. It was a flight. The plane didn't crash or catch fire," he says, dry. "So that's good. We were delayed on the tarmac for thirty minutes before takeoff, though."

"Bet Jon loved that."

"I, uh," Lovett says, licking his lips, "loosened him up a little bit at the airport, beforehand. Quick handjob in the bathroom. Emily's idea. So I think he handled it okay."

Ronan's eyes flash, chin curled in his hand. When he leans forward in his desk chair, the darkened windows of his apartment swing into view behind him. "I see," Ronan says, voice gone half an octave lower. "You think he'll be up for that when we go to Europe, too?"

Lovett can feel his face turning pink. "You could ask him yourself," he says, managing to maintain eye contact. "Now that we're—"

He cuts himself off, swallowing, and Ronan raises a delicate eyebrow. "Now that we're what?"

"Now that we've opened Pandora's box of polyamory, apparently," Lovett says, so fast that words almost stumble over each other. He drops his phone to his chest for a second, eyes squeezing shut. "God, I wish you were here."

"This has been hard on you," Ronan says, quiet.

"That is a massive understatement." Ronan's eyes are kind when Lovett pulls the phone back up again. "You would not believe the information I have retained over the last 36 hours."

"Oh yeah?" Ronan asks. "You want to share with the class?"

It's too much, too many private things that have come to light, and even with the nap, Lovett is still so tired. The weary ache that's settled into his bones will ease with time, but it hasn't yet, can't have, because of all the seismic shifts that happened seemingly overnight.

"Did you know," Lovett says, grasping for something breezy and leaning back onto the mountain of pillows behind him, "that Hanna does _accents_?"

It's always a pleasure seeing Ronan surprised, and it doesn't happen often, even when it's after hours, and he's let the polite, benignly interested veneer drop. He sits up straighter at his desk and says, "I did not know that. Does she do impressions, too?"

"She could probably do a mean Jane America," Lovett says, and Ronan's genuine laugh makes it easier to talk about the rest, recount the two hour plane ride, epiphanies and confessions and all.

"I fucking knew it," Ronan interrupts, when he gets to the hushed conversation with Tommy. Lovett rolls his eyes. "I told you, didn't I?"

"Yes, yes, you were right all along," Lovett says. He palms the back of his neck, glances toward the door. "I bet they're—I don't know, bro hugging it out right now."

"Bro hugging? That's a pretty PG fantasy, Jonathan," Ronan says. 

"It's been an exhausting couple of days," Lovett argues, dragging his gaze away to peek at his wrist and check the time. He'd been out longer than he'd thought. It's just past nine, and his stomach has started waking up too, rumbling ominously as he shifts. "They're probably just—watching TV in the living room. Or sleeping, because we're old now. I think Emily wanted to get an early start tomorrow."

Ronan snorts. "You could go join them."

Lovett's stomach gives another squirm; he's not sure it has much to do with hunger. "Yeah, maybe. I need to rustle up something to eat, anyway." He sits up and runs a hand through Pundit's fuzzy fur.

"I'll let you go," Ronan says, smiling into his palm. "Send pics of Pundit trapped in the snow and how sunburned everyone gets."

"Stay on," Lovett says. "I'm gonna make you say hi to the people you abandoned."

He propels himself off the bed with a big heave, Pundit following dutifully behind him. The hallway is dark, but light is still spilling out of the big main room, and Lovett has to squint when he shuffles in. Tommy's kneeling next to the fireplace, and Hanna's lying on the sofa with her head in Emily's lap. He can hear puttering in the kitchenette, the sound of glass clinking, which must be Jon.

"Hey," Emily says when she sees him, nudging the coffee table with her toe. "Pizza seemed easiest for dinner the first night. We saved some for you."

"Thanks," Lovett says, heartfelt, and passes his phone to Hanna before opening one of the big boxes. "I'm FaceTiming with Ronan. Please put your guilt-tripping skills to good use."

"Before you start, Hanna," Lovett hears Ronan say, as he takes a bite out of a lukewarm slice of pepperoni. "I heard from Lovett today that you do some _excellent_ impressions."

Hanna laughs. "Flattery will get you everywhere," she says. When Lovett looks at Tommy, he's biting his lip as he reaches into the chimney to push the damper open. "But really. Work? Weak excuse."

"You'll all see me in Stockholm, I promise," Ronan says.

"That's not for another three weeks," Emily says, leaning forward to pout into the camera. Pundit whines mournfully, and Hanna leans down to scratch her head.

"Wine?" comes Jon's voice from behind. Lovett turns halfway, rocking back on his heels. Jon's got a bottle of red tucked underneath his arm and is also holding, somehow, five empty glasses in two hands, between his fingers.

"God, please," Tommy says. He's crumpling newspaper up in his hands now, tucking it between the logs. "Let mine breathe."

" _Breathe_ ," Lovett mocks, shaking his head. Tommy reaches back to flip him off as Jon eases the wine glasses onto the coffee table.

"Hi," Jon says, stepping forward, eyes crinkling. "Sleep well?" Before Lovett can do anything, say anything, move at all, Jon leans down to kiss him, quick and proprietary.

"Gross," Lovett says, feeling his face turn red. "I've got nap breath _and_ pizza breath right now."

"Maybe I'm into nap and pizza breath," Jon says with a smile, leaning in again. It's an easy thing, the same kind of peck he'd darted in this morning, but Lovett finds that he wants to lean into it for longer this time.

It's still weird doing this out in the open. Weirder still that they're doing it at all, but the steady pressure of Jon's fingertips on his hips helps. The kiss doesn't last long, he's still too out of it to try and initiate anything more involved, but even still, when he pulls back, it's to four sets of eyes staring raptly at him. Hanna has flipped his phone outward so that Ronan is peering at them too, lips parted and cheeks flushed.

"Uh, hi," Lovett says. "What are we doing?"

"So that's what looks like," Hanna says, leaning back and nudging elbows with Emily. "You were right. It is pretty hot."

"Okay, okay," Jon says from behind him. His hand is like a brand on Lovett's skin; somehow he's managed to sneak it beneath his shirt. "That's enough."

"I'm just trying to recalibrate my expectations for the next five days," Hanna says, instead of dropping it. "Is there going to be a lot of openly casual kissing? I can get behind that."

"Oh, you can?" Emily asks, smirking. Her brows are up. "Really?"

Hanna leans in, and—as they all watch, except for Ronan, because Lovett's phone slides from Hanna's grasp and onto the hardwood—kisses Emily, right on the mouth.

It lasts ten, maybe fifteen seconds. Chaste, especially in comparison to the things he's done with half the people in this room, but still shocking to see. When they break apart, Emily doesn't even move all that far away, scooting down and resting her head on Hanna's shoulder as their fingers intertwine.

Tommy has rescued Ronan and the rest of Lovett's phone from purgatory, leaned against the fireplace and talking to him about something Lovett can't quite make out. Hanna turns to press her mouth to the crown of Emily's head, the flyaway wisps of her blonde hair. Lovett feels warm, chest constricting, not because it's pushing any of his buttons, really, but more from a sudden sense of—rightness in the world, of being enveloped in something bigger than just him. The intimacy of belonging.

"Shit, I forgot the corkscrew," Jon says, maybe just to him, maybe to the room at large. "I'm going to go grab that and some water."

"Can I have some too, please, babe?" Emily calls out.

"I'll come help you look," Lovett says, heart thudding in his ears, and puts his half-eaten slice of pizza back down on the lid of the box.

It's dimmer in the kitchenette, and the tight feeling in Lovett's rib cage seems a little less overwhelming. Jon pulls a couple of tall glasses out of one of the cabinets and turns the tap on, fills them both, sets them aside. "You okay?" he asks.

Lovett nods, says, "Yeah, just—processing, you know. Hanna and Emily _kissed_."

Jon laughs. "They do that sometimes." He comes closer and takes Lovett into his arms, his palms soft and warm on Lovett's waist. He anchors Lovett in place as he leans in, presses their mouths together. There's no real heat to it, except for the warmth that comes any time they're standing this close. Lovett pushes closer, winding his arms around Jon's neck, and lets himself sink into it.

A long moment later, there's a brief rustle from the doorway, and Lovett breaks the kiss, turns his head. "Oh, hey," Tommy says, one hand fiddling with the cuff of his hoodie. "I just came in for the grill lighter."

"Hi, Tommy," Lovett says, dropping his arms and pulling as far away as Jon will let him. Not that far, it turns out. Jon tugs him back, arms around Lovett's waist like a rubber band. It's not unpleasant, just surprising. They haven't really done this kind of stand up cuddling before.

Tommy tilts his head, the top half of his lips curling into an approximation of a smile. He doesn't look uneasy, just a little tired, the way they all probably do. Lovett isn't surprised that Tommy's gaze catches and briefly holds onto the place where Jon's arms are wrapped around him.

"Also," he says, "I think this is yours," tugging Lovett's phone out and handing it over. "Ronan had to take a call, but he said to text him later. He'll probably still be up."

"Does he ever sleep?" Jon asks idly as he moves back, rustling through the drawers.

"It's been known to happen," Lovett says. He raises a fist to his mouth and pokes his tongue against his cheek briefly. "If I tucker him out, sometimes it's even for several consecutive hours."

"Is that right?" Jon says. The tips of his ears are red.

"Thanks for that visual, Lovett," Tommy says, flushing, but he's finally smiling with all his teeth.

He looks like he's about to leave the room. If Lovett concentrates hard enough, he can hear the girls chatting easily, the low hum of whatever they have on the TV. He thinks about Tommy's face on the plane, the way his mouth had twisted when he said, _maybe I'm just not as brave as you are_.

Sometimes people just need a push, right? Lovett's good at pushing.

"Tommy," Lovett says.

"Yeah?"

"Come here." 

Tommy doesn't, eyes wide, seemingly frozen to the spot. Lovett huffs under his breath, hears Jon's soft gasp of surprise, and takes the three feet in a few easy strides, tugging Tommy down so their mouths can crash together. For a moment, Tommy's neck tenses against Lovett's grip, his shoulders flexing, and then he sinks into it, messy and wet and hard. Tommy's kissing like he's got something to prove, teeth scraping against Lovett's lower lip, curling his hand up around Lovett's cheek and fitting their bodies together—and maybe he does, but Lovett's too busy trying to steal his breath to care. 

"Wow," Jon groans from somewhere behind them. He doesn't reach out, but he does move closer, so that Lovett is boxed in. It's heady, hard not to feel satisfied when Tommy pulls away to suck in a large, panting gasp.

"I wanted to do that on the plane," Lovett says.

Tommy's smile is fond, and he presses his thumb to Lovett's cheek in a gesture that is achingly familiar. Lovett wonders if Jon can see, what Jon is thinking, and then his phone buzzes, cutting through the heaviness in the room. Lovett lets his eyes close for a moment, exhaling, and then turns his phone up to look at the screen. Stephanie's calling. 

"I'm going to, uh. I have to take this," Lovett murmurs, sliding out from between them. "You guys should—" He flourishes with his wrist, because he doesn't really know how to finish the sentence in a way that doesn't seem contrived, or just—weird. This isn't, classically, his forte. Tommy's looking at him, gaze impenetrable. Jon's looking at Tommy, lips parted, eyebrows slanted downward.

Lovett steps away and leaves them to it, heart jackrabbiting in his throat. He takes a few breaths in an alcove by the front entrance of the cabin, trying to relax, and then picks up the phone, foot scuffing against one of Tommy's dumb Sperrys.

"Hi," Steph says, face popping into view. They're in the living room of their house, brightly lit, a cartoon playing in the background on the television. "Bennett wanted to say hello to Uncle Jon." She squints. "Where are you?"

"Utah," he says, scraping a hand through his hair, and she winces.

"Oh, right! Sorry, I forgot that was this week. Should I let you go?"

He shakes his head, smiling. "Put him on," he says, settling down on the bench next to the shoe rack. The phone jostles, and then Bennett rolls into frame, peering down through the camera, giving Lovett a nice view up his nose. "Why are you still awake, little man? Giving your mom a hard time?"

After Bennett chatters a bit about his latest obsession, which seems to be his ever growing collection of toy trucks, Steph gives him an update about the flu she'd accidentally spread to Isaac and also half the extended family in New York. Lovett asks about the ophthalmology practice, gives her an overview of the things they've been working on. It's a good conversation. Grounding. A reality check, a little reminder that the world out there beyond this bubble does still exist, even when he feels like he's floundering without a life vest, sometimes.

"I love you," he says in a rush, at the end of the call, when Bennett's drooping against her shoulder. He shrugs when Stephanie's eyes go wide. They've never been a particularly demonstrative family, but—"I'm trying something new," he continues. In more ways than one.

"I like it," Stephanie says, the corner of her mouth lifting. "I love you too, Jon."

He feels more settled when he shuffles back into the living room. Emily and Jon are the only ones left, tucked close to each other on the sectional, Jon with one hand on her thigh, Emily's mouth stained pink with wine. "The party's winding down, I see," Lovett says.

"Tommy gave up on the fire for tonight," Emily says by way of explanation, which could mean anything, and leans forward to grab the bottle on the coffee table. "Drink?"

Lovett shrugs. "Fuck it," he says, flopping down cross-legged next to her and snagging an empty glass. "Why not?"

Jon smiles at him as Emily leans against his shoulder. He tamps down on the urge to ask about Tommy, what they might have talked about after Lovett left to take his call. They still have four full days of vacation to get through; there'll be time to figure the rest of it out. Instead, he finishes the generous portion of wine Emily pours out for him and his abandoned slice of pepperoni pizza, and then lets Emily badger him into promising to wake up at eight so they can do outside activities together in the morning.

"I'm still mad I can't take Pundit skiing," he whines, even though both Emily and Jon have heard him complain about it before.

"Did you order that backpack I sent you the link for?" she asks, squinting at him and shaking out her long curtain of hair. "We can still take her hiking and stuff. She'll have fun."

"Yeah. Ronan has one, but when he said he couldn't make it, I just ordered one of my own from Amazon."

Jon winks at him. "Did you also order some more maroon pants?"

It's an innocuous statement, made heady by the way Jon is looking at him, staring at his legs. "Yeah, maybe," Lovett says.

He doesn't know what Jon's getting at, but maybe Jon's not getting at anything, content with Emily flush against him and Lovett on her other side, only separated by a small sliver of couch.

When he finds himself yawning in time with them, he says, "Okay, I'm going to bed before we have to wake Tommy up and make him carry me."

"I could probably carry you," Jon argues, but he doesn't move from his perch against the arm of the couch, not even when both Lovett and Emily turn raised brows at him. "What! I'm just saying. I probably could. I lift."

"Yeah," Emily agrees solemnly before winking at Lovett. "Your phone. To check Twitter." 

She giggles at her own joke, turning her face against Jon's chest, and he's laughing too, quietly enough so that the sound doesn't carry, but still loud enough that Lovett can feel it. He can't stop looking at them, thinking about how he could move; slide up against Emily's side, or maybe burrow his way next to Jon, how that would be fine. Welcome, even, in this safe, warm room, with the lights dimmed and a blanket across their knees to keep them warm.

"I," he says, pushing up to his feet, and gets both Favreaus' attention, their eyes wide and only slightly wobbly as they meet his gaze. "I am going to bed."

Emily presses a kiss to the tips of her fingers and waves them at him. "Night, hon," she says, and he feels warm all over again. It's what she calls Jon when she's sleepy or sick. In the course of their friendship, Lovett's probably been on the receiving end of it before, but not like this. This, he'll remember.

;;

It's almost eleven by the time Lovett brushes his teeth and crawls under the covers. He sends Ronan a couple photos of Pundit curled up in her doggy bed before starfishing across the mattress.

He was expecting the restless night. He's always catnapped to de-stress and dealt with the complications later—usually with a pot of coffee or a six-pack of Diet Coke, the cursor in an empty Word document blinking back at him—so it isn't a surprise that he rolls over in the middle of the night to read 2:08 on the digital clock, and then 3:30, 5:22.

He gives it up as a lost cause a little bit before seven, coaxes Pundit up so she can pee before he has to bundle her into a backpack for a morning of outdoor activities. He's coming back in through the back door with her when he hears the coffee machine start up in the kitchen.

Tommy's in there by himself, long body leaned up against the counter. He's staring at nothing, obviously not quite awake yet, but he smiles when he sees Lovett, beckoning him over.

"Morning," Tommy mumbles, bumping their elbows. It's about as much of a greeting as Lovett would get back when they lived together and Tommy wasn't ready to be human quite yet. "There's coffee." He points toward the burbling coffee machine. "Or. There will be coffee."

His voice is rusty from sleep, and Lovett catches himself just before reaching up to press his thumb against the crows feet at the corners of Tommy's eyes. He could do it. Tommy probably wouldn't mind, but he holds back, leaning next to him against the counter and waiting for the drip to stop.

When it does, Tommy grabs one of the mugs from the rack, filling it to nearly the top before handing it over. 

"There's milk and stuff," he says, gesturing toward the fridge with his elbow, then filling two other mugs, one for himself, which he sips at without doctoring, and one for Hanna, presumably, who takes three sugars and cream.

"Sweet," Lovett jokes, gesturing to the mug Tommy is manhandling as well as the sugar he's stirring into it. "The Utah Jazz. That's… tennis? Is it a televised acapella competition?"

Tommy takes another sip of his drink. "Basketball, Lovett. You know. Swishy shorts? Round, um, balls? Two hoops."

"Round balls and two hoops," Lovett says, stretching the words as he widens his eyes. "Tommy, you're blowing my mind."

He's trying to keep his voice serious, trying to keep the laugh out of it, but the trouble with being friends for so long is that for as much as he can read Tommy's tells, Tommy can read his, too.

It takes one long stride for Tommy to cross the kitchenette, and approximately four seconds for him to press their bodies together. It's a long, slow push, and one that ends with Lovett's mouth pressed against the open collar of his shirt.

"You're such a shithead," Tommy says. "You know that?"

"Yeah," Lovett agrees, "but you like that about me," voice coming out scratchier than anticipated as Tommy dips his head and kisses him on the mouth.

The thing is: it's not a surprise that they're doing this. Lovett had kissed him two feet away, in this exact kitchen, less than twelve hours ago. It feels different in the light of day, though—slower, as if parts of Lovett's brain are still swaddled in sleep. "Should it feel weirder," Tommy murmurs when he pulls back, "that we're allowed to do this now?"

"Fuck if I know," Lovett says. "It's all new to me. I'm just gonna ride this wave until—what's the analogy?"

"Surfing?" 

"I think skiing is more apt in this scenario," Lovett says, holding himself still and waiting to see if Tommy laughs. He does, not muffling it entirely, the sound crowding them in this little room and probably escaping out to where the bedrooms are. 

"Shit, I bet that woke them," Tommy says, taking another swallow of his coffee and closing his eyes. "You're a menace."

He doesn't move away, slumped down enough that their arms are bumped together. It's nice just to stand here comfortably, in their pajamas and bare feet, enjoying the quiet of the morning.

"Eh, even if it did, they have to be up soon anyway." Lovett shrugs, eyeing Tommy's undershirt-clad shoulder and wondering if he could press his face against it. He's allowed to now, after all. He pushes himself forward that final inch and lets Tommy take the rest of his weight.

Tommy makes a soft noise in his throat, surprise or maybe something else, but he doesn't pull away, shifts instead so that he can move his arm over Lovett's shoulders and haul him tight against his chest. It's sort of a mirror of how Jon held him yesterday, a standing version of cuddling that he doesn't hate.

After a while, Tommy rests his head on top of Lovett's, completing the domestic tableau, and that's how Hanna catches them, padding into the kitchen in a fluffy bathrobe, a towel turban keeping up her hair.

"Aw," she says, grinning, hand pressed to her chest as Tommy shifts back to pass her mug over. "Lovebirds!"

"Yeah, yeah," Lovett grumbles, trying to pull away, but Tommy has octopus arms from all those damn Barry's Bootcamps and doesn't release him, even as he's tugging Hanna close on his other side, kissing her leisurely.

Lovett has been around Jon and Emily when they're like this. Not quite so close, but certainly present for the brunt of it. Hanna and Tommy are no less in love, but they are definitely more reserved with their public displays of affection. It occurs to him belatedly, as they pull apart, that this _isn't_ public. A second later Hanna winks, darting in and kissing him on the cheek.

"Okay, okay, that's enough." Lovett can feel himself blushing. "Are you people ready to ski?"

"Soon," Hanna says. She takes another sip of her coffee. "Em and I just got out of the shower, but I think Jon's still in bed if you want to go and wake him."

"Who would've guessed I _wouldn't_ be the last person up, huh?" Lovett says, trying not to sound too flustered. From the way Hanna grins at him over the rim of her mug, he doesn't quite succeed.

It seems easier to escape out to the main room again, and then across the way to where Emily and Jon are staying, Pundit dogging his heels. Lovett can hear Emily getting ready in the bathroom off the hallway, singing quietly to herself, and swallows around a smile as he pushes into the bedroom.

Jon's shirtless, face crushed into a pillow, the sheets pooled halfway down his back. Lovett should've had three more cups of coffee before venturing in here, but it's too late now. He has to deal with the full brunt of what Jon Favreau looks like in the morning, fluffy, ungelled hair and all. 

"Sickening," he mutters under his breath and crosses to the bed. Pundit hops up and noses at Jon's shins beneath the comforter.

With his eyes closed, Jon reaches back to pet Pundit, mumbling under his breath. She squirms up the bed toward him, curling herself against his chest like a doll and settling in. The sight of it makes Lovett's breath catch, and he has to swallow twice before he can speak.

"Don't get too comfortable," he says. "We have a full itinerary today."

They look sweet together, soft and sleepy. Like the worst kind of temptation, especially when Jon mumbles, "It's cold out there. Come warm me up."

"Is that a line?" Lovett asks. "How did you ever get laid before Emily? I'm honestly asking."

Lovett finds himself drawing closer and closer anyway. Jon smirks at him, like he's noticing it too. His sunshine smile hasn't even reached full mass, but he's still pulling Lovett into orbit, close enough that he can reach over Pundit's head to circle his waist. "Come lie down for a second, Lovett. Indulge me."

"Fine, I guess." He shifts Pundit slightly backward and stretches out on the bed. "Did you know," he whispers, ducking in even closer, "that Hanna and Emily showered together this morning?"

Jon's eyes had drifted closed once Lovett sat down, but he pops them open again.

"Hanna told me," Lovett adds quickly. "I didn't, ah. It's not like I was snooping."

"I can't imagine you ever snooping on women showering," Jon says, dragging the words out slowly. "I can't even imagine you snooping on a male locker room. You're very private. Invasions of privacy are gross and you're not gross, so."

He yawns around it, burrowing down against his pillow again, like he hasn't just been so carelessly, easily kind. Jon probably has a million superpowers, but this is the one that always catches Lovett off guard, even though he should be more than used to it by now.

"Oh, thanks," Lovett says. "I'm so relieved you feel that way." He clenches and unclenches his fists beneath the top sheet, fighting between the urge to play it off for laughs or lean into the sincerity.

"You know what I mean," Jon says, the corner of his mouth rising. "I love you."

Lovett squirms closer, huffing out a breath. "I know you don't know how to turn it off, but sometimes I wish you would just…" He's not sure how to end his thought, and Jon doesn't help, exhaling slowly and rolling enough so that their arms bump. "It's not as easy for me."

Jon blinks the sleepiness out of his eyes. "I know. You don't have to explain yourself to me."

Lovett swallows around the lump in his throat. "I love you, uh. Too. A lot. I'm trying this thing where I say it more, but it's new, so I might be bad at it." He squeezes his eyes shut. Isn't it supposed to get easier every time? Maybe one day it won't feel like he's dangling over a long drop down any time he tries to verbalize affection. 

"You're not _bad_ at it," Jon says, huffing out a laugh. "That one was okay. No one even cried this time!" 

"It's great that you can laugh at yourself," Lovett says, going for the joke, even though he can feel his pulse jumping. Sometimes it feels like his heart is overfull to bursting. "That was so embarrassing. Falling in love over pizza. Please."

There's a lull, and his breath catches in the moment just before Jon says, "I fell in love with you a long time before that, Jon."

Lovett has questions. Wants receipts. Wants proof. Jon presses a messy kiss to his cheek, and he could let it go—maybe he _should_ —but he's never been able to keep his mouth shut. "How did you know?" he asks. It's mortifying to hear how small his voice sounds when it comes out. "When?"

"When did I know I had feelings for you?" Jon scoots far enough that he can straighten up a bit, peering down at Lovett with soft eyes.

Lovett groans, burying half his face against Jon's soft mountain of pillows. "When you did you know you were in love?" he asks, muffled. "When did you know it was more than 'I would fuck Lovett if there was no one left on earth, maybe,' to 'actually, I can't stand to live the rest of my life without him by my side'."

"Jon," Jon says, reaching his hand out to trace light fingers against the curve of Lovett's cheek. "It's always been like this for me."

Lovett feels too hot, and not just from where Jon is touching him. "I had bad hair and awful pants in the White House. Don't tell me that when you were paling around with Rashida and _Bradley Cooper_ , a tiny flame with a tiny boner was burning for me."

"Well," Jon says, laughing so hard that the movement shakes the headboard. "Maybe not then, exactly, but that's not what you asked me. I knew I wanted you around. I knew I _always_ wanted you around, like part of me didn't feel…" He pauses, as if searching for the right word. "Complete, I guess, unless you were there, too."

"Complete," Lovett repeats, trying not to let his voice waver too much. "I make you feel complete?"

Jon ducks his head just for a second, and when he makes eye contact again, his face is as pink as the tips of his ears. "You know you do. Every day I looked at you and thought, 'I always want him here with me', and when you left, I…"

"Bet you thought you dodged that bullet, huh?" Lovett asks, full of fake bravado, pulse beating loudly in his ears. He knows what comes next. "Who knew you'd be trapped seeing me every day all over again?"

Jon moves fast, pinning him back against the fluffy mattress in one smooth motion, both hands on Lovett's wrists. "I _followed_ you," he says. "Lovett, I packed up my entire life and I followed you."

"Stalker," Lovett says, throat dry.

Jon offers him a smile. "Sure, I guess, if that's what you wanna call it. I don't know when my brain tripped over from idly thinking, 'hey, those pants frame his ass nicely,' to 'I can't bear to be apart from this person for more than a few days at a time, or I'll go crazy', but I do know that I've never regretted hiring you. I've never regretted befriending you. I'll never regret this, what we're doing. I'm in love with you. I can't imagine that changing."

"Why didn't you _say_ anything?"

Jon quirks an eyebrow. "Because I was with Emily? Because we love your boyfriend? Because it never seemed worth it when you weren't looking at me like that. I wasn't going to be the one to make a move."

"You expected _me_ to make a move?" Lovett scoffs. "Yeah, that would've gone over really well. I'd just march over to my—straight, as far as I knew, remember—I'd just march over to my good friend and brand new business partner and proposition him with gay sex."

"Did you want to?" Jon asks.

"Sometimes! Sometimes Ronan and I would talk about it. Vague terms, you know, but he has a varied, eclectic friend group, and they get into the type of shit that would turn your hair even grayer, Jon. They're open. They're explicit. We talked about everything, but I still never thought you, Mr. Strict Catholic Upbringing, would ever go that way."

"Even after Em told you about Maine?" Jon's voice is so quiet, but Lovett doesn't make any moves to lean closer. "Even after she let it slip, you didn't once think, oh, here's something new. Something I never thought about before."

There are roughly twenty five different ways Lovett could answer this question, and more than half of them are jokey deflections. "No," he says, because it's the truth. "She didn't give me all the details, but even then, I figured: of course. If you were going to experiment, it would be with your beautiful, sculpted, platonic soulmate, Tommy Vietor. It was a prophecy that was foretold, Jon. On the third night, of the third week, of the third month, in the year of our lord, two-thousand-and-seven, two horrendously attractive Massachusetts natives would crash together and bring about the presidency of America's first—"

"That's enough," Jon says, obviously embarrassed, but laughing through it, trying to sound stern. "If you thought I bungled this shit with you, the Tommy stuff was ten times worse. A hundred times worse. I had no idea what I was doing, and then he met Katie, and that was that. It was good. She was nice."

"She was not nice," Lovett interjects, even though he doesn't really remember. He wasn't present for most of the time that Tommy and Katie's relationship was at its best.

"It just made sense," Jon continues, staring down at his hands. "Tommy was with Katie, and I went back to normal. He did too."

"Being gay _is_ normal," Lovett says, the hot anger of it pulsing through him brightly. "Don't. Don't do that. Don't make it sound like your dipped toe in homosexuality was something gross and crazy. It happened, and maybe that was out of the ordinary for you, but—"

"You're right," Jon agrees, cutting the diatribe in half. "I didn't know what I was doing. It wasn't what I was used to. I started dating around, and it was fine. Everything was in regular working order, and then we won, and it was like…" Lovett nudges his side carefully after a few seconds, so that Jon doesn't delve too deeply in the rosy-hued past. "Meeting you was a shock to the system, but I already had the tools to ignore it, so I did."

"Dating Emily probably helped."

"Yeah." Jon smiles. "But you know she's obsessed with you too, right? It wasn't just me, Lovett. It isn't just me. And it's obviously not the same, I get that, but she obviously loves you."

What an admission. Lovett closes his eyes and just sits with that for a minute, his stomach doing backflips, thinking about Emily's sunny smiles and generous affection, the swift emails whenever he changes his Twitter profile pic into something particularly unflattering, the way she and Jon had both cried a little during his toast at the wedding. 

"I love her too," Lovett says, throat scratchy. When he opens his eyes again, Jon's sending him a look so sappy that Lovett wants to shove him off the bed. "Stop that."

"Stop what?" Jon says guilelessly. He kisses Lovett's neck, the soft brush of his lips making Lovett shiver. 

They have to go; there's a schedule to adhere to and a plan for the day, but it's nice to just stay like this for a moment, caught in this syrupy slow haze. It's easy to let the seconds pass, especially curled up like this, under clean sheets and warm blankets, Pundit snoring beside them. Lovett isn't at his sharpest when he hears the door open, startled awake at the sound of Emily's pleased noise of surprise.

"My two Jons!" she says, and Lovett feels a tight rush of warmth expand in his chest as she tugs her phone out. "Stop, don't move. I'm recording this for posterity. What if I blow some of these up and hang a collection of them over our bed?"

"Make sure you use FrameBridge," Jon says. He hasn't moved his arm, and Lovett is torn between desperately wanting him to and letting the impromptu photoshoot happen. Emily is still snapping away, and her phone isn't on silent, so they can hear every shutter click.

"Ugh, don't," Lovett whines. "My hair." He reaches his hand up to try and smooth his fuzzy bedhead, but Jon stops him with a hand on his wrist, eyes opened into slits.

"Stop. She's art directing. She'll let you move soon." He rolls even closer, Pundit trapped between them as he presses another kiss, filthier this time, against the jumping pulse at Lovett's neck.

"I think," Lovett groans after a while, pushing Jon away and sitting up. "I did not, at any point, agree to videotapes or sexy pictures of myself in any sort of undress, or—or compromising positions."

Jon sits up too, quirking a brow at him. "Videotapes? What are you, 84?"

"Watch it, old man," Emily says. "I had to show you the function to access your phone keyboards the other day." She bends down to flip through one of the open suitcases on the floor and flings one of those hundred dollar undershirts at Jon's face.

Jon catches it in one hand, laughing. Emily floats closer, presses one knee to the bed, and leans in to kiss Lovett's cheek, easy as anything. Lovett's stomach flips again, a pleased little thrill fizzing up his spine. Jon watches it happen, and Emily snaps her fingers at him when she pulls away.

"Favreau. Chop chop. Get dressed."

"Yes, ma'am," he says, eyes twinkling.

;;

It's a cold day out, but the sky is clear after they pick up some breakfast sandwiches in town and finally make it to the slopes. Lovett's bundled up in three layers; by the time they get to the foot of the hiking trail, it feels like he's already sweated through his first one.

Tommy and Hanna split off toward the lifts with their rented equipment. "Blue slope first, to warm up," she says, nudging Tommy, who looks like he's about to protest and make them start off first thing on a black diamond. Typical.

"Sync back up around lunch, and then we can take a turn in the afternoon," Emily calls after them.

Lovett clips Pundit's lead on, takes a few photos of her frolicking in the snow to send to Ronan. "You guys can go ski too," Lovett says carefully, wiggling his fingers back into his gloves and shoving his phone in his pocket. "I don't want you to feel obligated to stick around. It's not your fault Pundit can't go up on the lifts."

"Don't be ridiculous," Jon says, and he's grinning when he stomps past Lovett in his heavy snow boots. "If we make it up to the Mid Mountain trail, you're supposed to be able to see the entire city."

"We promised Ronan we wouldn't leave you alone," Emily says, equally cheerful, and Lovett shakes his head as he follows after them. It's probably cold enough that he can pretend the flush in his face is just from the temperature.

"It'll be just like hiking Runyon," Jon says.

It is nothing at all like hiking Runyon, but Lovett does appreciate the sentiment. They loop up through the trees, Pundit loping eagerly forward to sniff at strangers and faceplant in the new snow drifts that loom around every corner. Lovett's in better shape than he thought he was, or maybe the soreness just won't hit until tomorrow, but he's still breathing hard by the time they get high enough for a good scenic view.

"Wow," Lovett says, peering over the ledge, down to the foot traffic on the main streets of Park City. From this high up, everything looks tiny, like the inside of a snowglobe before it's shaken. "Very idyllic."

"Picture time," Emily says, decisive as always, and leans down to hoist Pundit into her arms, grinning as Jon takes snap after snap of them.

He must have a hundred photos of Emily and a random combination of the company dogs on his phone. Lovett does too. There are fewer photos of the two of them together. It's almost like as soon as he has the thought, Emily hears it, because she spins around and pointing both of them.

"Up here," she says, handing over Pundit's wriggling body. "Come on. The two of you."

"Didn't you get enough this morning?" Jon asks, but he hauls Lovett up next to him, arm wrapping around his shoulder like a brand. Lovett tries to keep a stern expression on for as long as he can, but he starts laughing when Pundit licks his chin, his cheek, and then Jon turns to press his mouth against Lovett's temple and all the breath seems to leave his body.

"Oh, I'm sending this one to the group chat," Emily says, sounding pleased.

Lovett huffs and bends down to let Pundit loose again. After another twenty minutes of climbing, passing groups of other hikers and a couple of snow-shoers, he's starting to feel the burn in his legs. They stop for a breather, take a few more photos from a different view, and then all three of their phones ping with notifications at the same time: Ronan's sent a sad-faced selfie from his office at the New Yorker, and Hanna's sent a Boomerang of Tommy wiping out at the bottom of a steep slope.

 _beat him to the bottom_ , she's captioned it, and as Lovett watches, Ronan replies with a string of cry-laughing emojis.

Jon's chuckling too as he looks up from his phone and tucks it back in his pocket. "Should we go back down and rescue him?"

"Let Hanna have her fun," Emily says, but a few minutes later she helps load Pundit into her little backpack for the hike back down.

It's past noon by the time they actually meet up again. Despite liberal application of sunblock, both Tommy and Hanna have a peachy, sunburnt glow. They're probably also glowing because they're beaming at each other. "What is going on with you guys?" Jon asks. If even _Jon_ is pointing it out, the energy coming off of them must be obvious. 

"Did you do something dirty?" Emily asks on a laugh. 

She's standing next to them, and Lovett watches as Hanna tosses her head back, one gloved hand on Tommy's arm, and the other landing on Em's shoulder just before she darts in and glides their mouths together. It lasts about as long as their peck on the couch last night, but this kiss is… it's—Lovett hasn't spent a lot of time watching women in porn, but it's hard to look away from the arresting image the two of them make. It's different, apparently, when it's people that you know. 

" _Did_ you do something dirty?" Jon asks Tommy, eyebrows rising. It's hard to tell if he's blushing, or if the frigid air is playing tricks with the apples of his cheeks.

"Wouldn't you like to know," Hanna says on a wink, just as Tommy is starting to say something else. "Okay. Hand her over, Jon. Go ski."

Lovett shrugs off his backpack and looks down at Pundit, who stares back up at him balefully. She was raised on a snowy farm, and doesn't seem to mind the inclement weather, but she's a lapdog, if not a purse dog specifically. He turns the words over in his head, trying to make it a joke and coming up short. 

"Does she look cold?" he asks, peering down at her again.

Emily looks too, but shakes her head decisively after a couple seconds, "Maybe, but what are you going to do, give her your jacket? You're a person who hates doggy clothes, because they have, quote, 'built in sweaters'. I think she'll probably last another couple hours."

" _Hours_?" he asks, voice squeaking. "If you think my hips are going to survive hours of skiing after hours of hiking, you've got another thing coming, EBF."

"Cute," Hanna says, nudging Tommy and gesturing for him to strap Pundit to his back. "Go stretch those muscles out, Lovett. Really feel the burn."

He lasts less than two hours, which shakes out to four full runs, three falls, and the fifteen minute wait in line to get himself equipment.

By the time Em and Jon have completed their last go-around, Lovett's whole body is a bruise. Jon nudges their shoulders together as he glides up smoothly, grinning under his bright orange ski goggles.

"You holding up okay?" he asks. Lovett watches as his eyes flick around, can practically see the equations he's running to determine if he has the time, the space, the privacy, to dart in a kiss. Lovett saves him the trouble by leaning in first, too tired to worry about making a scene.

When he pulls back, trying not to wince at his rumpled reflection in Jon's goggles, it's to Jon's incandescent face, glowing with sweat, probably, but also with happiness. It's difficult not to smile back like a lovesick asshole, but he makes a concerted effort.

"I'm done," Lovett says, instead of complaining about the ache in his back and the persistent soreness in his knees. He's not as out of shape as he used to be, but they sit in an office all day. He's allowed to be tired.

"You looked good out there," Em says, offering him a smile. She's glowing too, not rumpled or sweaty at all. Honestly, it's a struggle not to hate either of them during times like this.

"Okay, we can stop the 'pity Jon party'," he says. "My form is fine. I only fell twice and a half times, but my ass is sore, and—" he leans in for this part, making sure Jon and Emily are within whispering distance, "—it's not even the fun kind of sore."

Jon offers him a wry smile. "I'm assuming tonight's escapades involve the hot tub and maybe a foot rub? Quick, help me think of the third thing to form a rhyming couplet."

"Well, I could probably eat my weight in subs, if that's what you're offering. Oh god, Jon, if you take me for a sub right now, I'll do anything you want. I'll be your sex slave for life. Think about it. Do they even have subs in Utah? Who _cares_ , feed me."

Jon's cheeks pink up. He's so fucking pretty. If Lovett's body could even think about getting aroused, this is the thing that would do it. 

"Em and I were going to do a couple more runs. Take a stab at the black diamond," Jon says, which might be the worst thing to come out of his mouth since, "Fuck, he's actually going to win this thing."

" _Jon_ ," he pleads.

"Hanna was talking about going to the grocery store, wasn't she? You guys should do that. I'll see if Tommy wants to give the big one a go again."

 _The big one_ , Lovett mouths to himself, catching Emily's grin over Jon's shoulder. He watches as Jon tugs his gloves off, typing one handed in the biting cold.

"They're finishing up," he says, busting out that grin again. "Hanna said she was pretty sore from all the, uh, hiking." He waggles his eyebrows, and Lovett makes a gagging motion with his hand.

"Poor, traumatized Pundit," Lovett says gloomily, at the same time Emily laughs and says, "As if you and Ronan have never done anything with your dog in the room. I'm sure she's used to it."

Lovett's trying to figure out how to rebut when Tommy and Hanna sidle over with Pundit in tow; she's chomping happily on something. "We got beef jerky from the ski shop," Hanna explains, lifting the plastic bag in her hand. She jerks her thumb at Tommy. "This one had a hankering."

"It's protein, protein is good for you," Tommy says, jostling his shoulder against Lovett's as Jon and Emily reach into the bag and each grab a piece. "So how was it?"

"Fine," Lovett says. He's not quite sure what his face does, but he rolls his eyes and breaks into a smile when Jon pats his back. "You guys can keep going, but I'm done for the day."

"Same," Hanna says, wincing sympathetically. She passes Lovett a piece of jerky. "Come on, we can take Pundit grocery shopping and let these pros get more sunburned."

"SPF 50, babe," Emily says, tugging her goggles back on. She starfishes her arms, ski poles in hand, and nearly takes one of Lovett's eyes out. "Still holding strong."

"Boys?" Hanna says, cocking a hand on her hip. "Are you taking a few more runs?"

Something is happening between Jon and Tommy. Lovett hadn't noticed before, distracted by the ache of his stomach slowly eating itself and Pundit nosing around sniffing at the slush at the bottom of the hill, but now he can see them having a silent conversation, even though neither of their faces have moved much. It's like—it's almost like being underwater, or peering at them through a pane of glass. He can sort of grasp it, but it's not clear enough.

"We're going to keep going, definitely, but the pantry at the house is empty, so stocking up is the right call," Jon says finally, digging the keys to the rental out of the inside pocket of his parka and handing them to Hanna. "Here. I wouldn't trust Lovett with a CRV. Have you seen his car?"

"Death trap," Tommy agrees, face relaxing.

"How dare you," Lovett says, leaning into his outrage. "Without that Jeep, Crooked Media wouldn't exist. Our company was built on the back of that car."

"Do you mean it was built on the years of cardio Tommy and I put into pushing it out of traffic—"

"Hey!" Lovett cuts in. He's trying so hard to keep up the affront, but Jon's beaming at him again, eyes bright and cheery. "Hey. Be nicer to me. I thought we were in _love_."

"Yeah, we are," Jon says, a beaming smile spreading across his face. "Look at me, Lovett. I'm so confident about it, I even feel okay about mocking you." He pauses, ducks his head, and then grins even wider when he looks up again. "I told you nothing would change when we did this."

Lovett freezes. He's not sure how long they stand like that, just looking at each other, before Emily laughs, and then Hanna does too. She tugs on Lovett's arm again so they can get going. He can't quite see Tommy's face. Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe Tommy staying behind is going to—maybe he and Jon will finally work out their differences.

"What are we feeling?" Hanna asks once they hit the lot. They'd arrived early enough that Jon managed prime parking, only the third spot in from the front. Pundit falls asleep in the back seat almost immediately after Lovett buckles her into it. "I kind of want stir fry, but I also kind of want lasagna? I also have a wedding dress to fit into next summer, so maybe I should care about carbs, but…" She shrugs and lets her voice trail off as they get onto the main road, eyes twinkling.

"Skiing is a very strenuous activity," Lovett says blandly. "Burns a lot of calories. I mean, right? It's physical exertion."

"It is a sport," Hanna agrees, distracted as she rifles through her bag one-handed. "Hey, hon, could you poke through there and grab my phone out? I can't remember which of these turns is the one for town."

He could let it go, but something is itching under Lovett's skin, and he can't help himself. "Ugh, 'hon'?" he says. "Are you a pet name person too?" 

Instead of messing with Hanna's purse, he drags out his own phone, ignoring his notifications to call up the Waze app.

"Are pet names a problem?" Hanna asks. She's still smiling, her tone hasn't changed, but the question still puts him on edge. "I didn't do it on purpose. I know you're weird with, like. Intimacy."

Lovett doesn't gasp, but it's a close thing. "I am not—" he says, voice high and tight. "Just because I like being called by my name, because I don't prefer syrupy endearments that people ascribe to these cutesy words as though that changes the abject messiness of being in—of, of being in _love_ , doesn't mean I am any less interested in intimacy."

Hanna hums but doesn't argue, tucking her hair behind her ears with her free hand. His phone beeps, telling them the turn for the center of town is the next one.

"You can call me hon, I guess, if you want to," Lovett capitulates ventually, when the silence has stretched out so long he just can't help it. "I didn't mean to imply that you couldn't. We're friends. Sometimes friends do that."

"They hug, too," Hanna says. "You and Tommy are friends, you've messed around, you've fucked, but I think this morning was the first time I've ever seen you hug."

It's easier to deflect than it is to answer. "It's rude that you know so much about my sex life when I don't know anything about yours."

Hanna rolls her eyes. "You know enough. You know that Tommy and I see a lot of people. That's more than most people know. It's more than my parents know."

"Oh great, lumped in with the grown-ups. How fun."

Hanna laughs. "If the shoe fits."

"I don't know enough," Lovett says, not taking the bait. "Is it weird?" He'd meant to ask her about casual swinging, back before this had really started, before he knew Jon was in love with him, but he's — he's really never been good at it. "I had this whole plan, sort of. I was going to shadow you. See how you managed to pick up and go home and charm strangers into bed with you."

She whacks him on the arm. "Very To Catch A Predator of you, Lovett. Sometimes it is people at bars, sometimes it's friends of friends, sometimes it's just Tommy, and I'm happy, and so is he."

"But not always," he says. He can't always help pushing. "Sometimes there's an itch, or—? Do you pick up together?"

"I'm always happy with Tommy," she says definitively. "My happiness with Tommy has nothing to do with how many people I'm sleeping with."

"Oh," Lovett says.

"Yeah, oh," Hanna says. "It's all about being in a relationship, Lovett. You figure out what you want, you figure out what your partner wants, you see where the Venn Diagram of your interests overlap, and then you just fucking go for it."

"Together," Lovett says. "And sometimes with Jon and Emily."

"More with Emily recently. Jon has been otherwise preoccupied. I wonder why."

"I wonder," Lovett says, aiming to mimic her casual, jokey tone. "You've—you've been with Jon like that too, though? Haven't you? How did you keep from…"

"Hey." Hanna pulls into a spot and unclips her seatbelt in one graceful twist. She doesn't wait for him before sliding out of the car.

" _Haven't_ you?" Lovett asks, trying to keep his voice from breaking. "I don't recall seeing any crazy blind items about you two potentially running away together." That Jon would never is beside the point. The idea of the two of them having sex is not something Lovett has ever thought about in detail before. He'd known it had happened, but he's never had the context for it.

"I have," she says, and then she _winks_. "You must really be special. He definitely didn't profess his love to me after, even though the sex was incredible. Darn."

"Darn," Lovett echoes. He rouses a baleful Pundit in the backseat, clips her lead on again, and follows Hanna into the store.

They stop by the dairy section first for milk and yogurt, grab a carton of eggs and orange juice and some pancake mix for the morning. "We should get the funfetti kind," Lovett says, eyeing the various choices critically.

"Go big or go home," Hanna agrees and plunks the box down in their shopping cart so forcefully that Pundit, in the baby basket, startles out of her snooze again. "Oh, sorry, sweetheart, go back to sleep."

There are a truly ridiculous number of options in the frozen foods aisle. Hanna's inspecting Marie Callender's lasagnas when Lovett says, "As long as we're here and sharing, you know, personal things—did Tommy tell you what happened last night?" Just asking the question makes his ears feel too hot.

"What happened last night?" she asks. It doesn't sound like she's teasing or asking a leading question, and when he's quiet for too long again, she turns to look at him, brows up. "Lovett? What are you talking about?"

He can tell immediately that asking was a misstep, but there's no taking it back now. He clears his throat, reaching forward and scooping up Pundit so he can press his face to her fur.

"Come on, man," Hanna says, leaning over to nudge at him. "You can't just ask a weirdly loaded question and then not explain yourself. Did Tommy tell me what happened last night when? Do you mean when he walked in on you and Jon making out? Because he didn't tell me, but also you guys aren't subtle. Jon isn't subtle, anyway. You look like you've just gotten hit by a bus when he touches you sometimes."

Lovett blinks. "Hit by a—what? I do not. What?"

"You just look dazed. I get it. Favreau's hot." She turns back to inspect the frozen foods. "If you're into that sort of thing."

It's as good an opening as any. "So, that's sort of what I was asking, right? You said to talk to Tommy and I did."

"Okay," Hanna says. She dumps a box of lasagna into the cart and starts heading down the other way toward the dairy aisle. "Hey, what if we made cookies? I kind of want something chewy. Maybe sugar cookies? Do you think they have break-and-bakes here? I don't know if I'm up for any pouring and measuring."

"Can't hurt to check," Lovett says, following a few steps behind her and pushing their cart. Pundit whines, butting her head against his shoulder.

They stand side by side in front of the fridges in silence, glancing over each of the different offerings, and it's not awkward, not really, but he still can't stop himself from fidgeting. 

"What," Hanna says, reaching out and grabbing a roll of Nestle cookie dough. "You're tweaking so hard you're stressing out your dog. What's up, Jon?"

"I am not," Lovett says, peering down at Pundit, who stares back up at him. "Sorry, honey."

"It's interesting that you'll call your dog pet names, but you won't call your real-life boyfriends by them. You're such a mystery. A conundrum."

This would be a great moment for Pundit to call attention to herself and her brilliance with a well-timed woof, or even a bark. Instead, she looks uninterestedly at Lovett, licking at his neck when he doesn't immediately move to entertain her.

"My sister called last night," he says, instead of answering her question.

To her credit, Hanna rolls with it. "The one with the baby, right? How are they?"

"Good. Fine. She had the flu. He discovered Hot Wheels. It's all very exciting. Listen—I didn't hatch a secret plan with her so that she'd call and I'd have to leave Jon and Tommy alone, but it worked out fortuitously, so I did. Neither of them has brought it up, but I want to know how it went. How do we proceed from here, if Jon and Tommy are…"

"If Jon and Tommy are what, Lovett?"

"I am not a ghost, Hanna," he says, and the fierceness in his own voice seems to surprise them both, even if he is making a reference to a 90s children's movie. It certainly surprises Pundit, who finally gets with the program and barks. "Tommy has a crush on Jon. Jon, obviously, has heretofore unplumbed and hidden depths of love and an interest in men. I just thought I would… I thought I would facilitate their reconciliation. No more unfinished business. Fill in the last line of this weird polygon we have going."

When he turns back into her again, Hanna's face is carefully blank. It's startling to see her unsmiling, especially now that he's gotten used to the seemingly endless store of her teasing grins. Apparently there is a finish line, because the silence stretches and she doesn't move to fill it. 

Thank god for Pundit, who woofs again when he stops speaking. A little boy a few feet away, standing by the deli counter with his mother, keeps sneaking glances at them, and turning his face away every time Lovett tries to make eye contact. 

"Want to pet her?" he asks, setting Pundit on the tile floor and wrapping her leash around his palm a few times, so she can't wander too far.

Hanna turns, smiling at the kid and bending so they're around eye level. "She's really friendly. She only bites if you ask her to."

The kid laughs, hiding his face against his mom's leg. When he tugs at her jeans, whispering something and gesturing toward Lovett and Hanna and Pundit, she smiles and waves him off. Pundit meets him halfway, nosing around his ratty high tops, bumping her head against his skinny calves.

"Cute," Hanna says, sharing a smile.

Watching Pundit interacting with the world is almost enough to distract him from their conversation. Almost.

"I'm pretty sure that was a tactical error on your part, though," Hanna says eventually. She lets their shoulders bump together easily, but doesn't shift away or move any closer. "Pundit can't protect you if she's playing with somebody else."

"Protect me from what?" Lovett asks, unprepared for how simultaneously annoyed and tired she looks all of the sudden. Maybe it's not sudden. Maybe it's been building. 

"You know that this isn't, like. You can't play Cyrano for two people who have no interest in being together."

"No interest!" Lovett tries to keep his voice as modulated as hers is, but he can't quite manage it. "You were the one who told me Tommy would be _pining_."

"No," Hanna says, eyes flashing. "I said he didn't want to be left out. I said he didn't want to be left behind, but at no point did I say—Lovett, goddamn it, you can't force it when real people's feelings are involved."

"Hanna," he pleads, but she doesn't let him continue. Probably for the best, since he doesn't know what he could have said to make her listen. 

"I'm assuming that you're not intentionally trying to manipulate two of your best friends," she says in the devastating quiet. "If it happens, cool, great, I want Tommy to have every single thing he wants. Every opportunity. But if it's not something he's into… you have to be okay with that."

The sentiment is so familiar that Lovett actually loses a step, slumping against the glass case that protects the eggs. It tugs Pundit's lede, and she shuffles away from the kid, tangling back around Hanna's legs and getting comfortable.

"Ronan says that to me all the time," he admits. His voice is hoarse, like he's been yelling for hours, or maybe something else, something more emotionally complicated. "I think I'm too selfish to really say it back."

Hanna slumps next to him, elbowing him again, and harder this time. "Yeah, well," she says. "Not everybody can be a Favreau or a Farrow or a Koch. It takes a lot of effort."

"Are you including Emily under that Favreau-umbrella? Fav-brella? Is that a thing we can say, or no?"

"Yes," Hanna says, laughing despite herself. "And no." After a while, she straightens up, wiping her palms against the shiny material of her cold weather gear. "Just don't force it, okay? Even if you think people are being stubborn idiots who don't know what's best for them."

"You said it, not me," Lovett says, raising his hands, and the corner of her mouth lifts.

"Seriously," she says. "Don't hurt the folks you're lucky enough to have on your team. Maybe they can't fit in the boxes you want them to fit in, but that's why you create something brand-fucking-new. That's what Tommy and I did." She pauses to take a breath. "It's hard. Sometimes it sucks, but you just do it. If the person is worth it, if the _people_ are worth it, just get over yourself and do the thing. I mean," she says, flicking his shoulder. "I'm assuming Ronan and Emily didn't lock you and Jon in a room until a desired outcome was achieved."

Lovett laughs too, shaking his head. "Sure," he says. "It was a little more complicated than that, but sure."

"I see," she says, grabbing another roll of cookie dough off the shelf and steering their shopping cart back toward the front, toward checkout. "Maybe you can tell me all about it sometime."

;;

"I'm starving," is the first thing Tommy says when they swing by the resort to pick the skiers up. "Please tell me you guys got food."

"No, Tommy, we just got Jon's contact solution," Lovett says. "Bags and bags of it."

"Shit, did you really?" Jon asks, looking up from his phone as he climbs into the backseat. He's beaming again, almost like there's a lightning rod projecting directly from his face. "Thank you. I'm running really low."

It's good that Lovett is driving, that he has to focus on the unfamiliar terrain of a new place. That doesn't stop him from blushing, but at least Hanna is the only one who can see, and from what he can tell, she isn't even looking at him.

"Yeah," Lovett says, flicking his eyes up to the rear view to catch Jon looking at him already. "It's under the box of Gushers we grabbed for Tommy, and Emily's fancy Oolong."

"Excuse me," Em cuts in, saving him from admitting to something even more embarrassing. "Oolong is delicious. It makes your hair shiny and it regulates your poo."

"Those are all very important things," Hanna agrees, mouth twisted into a smirk as she types something on her phone.

It only takes about ten minutes for them to get back to the house, battling with the outskirts of Park City's early afternoon tourist traffic. The cabin they've rented is just off a residential street close to Main Street and the town center, secluded enough to feel private, but still close enough to civilization that it doesn't feel too suffocating. 

It's nice, Lovett thinks, helping Tommy unload the groceries from the back, and watching Jon take even more photos of Pundit as she noses through the snow. This is a nice thing they're doing, being here all together.

"It's suspicious when you get this quiet," Tommy says, taking five reusable bags to Lovett's two, probably not on purpose, but also maybe to show off the sinewy flex of his arms. "What are you planning?" 

"Wouldn't you like to know," Lovett flirts, tongue poking against his cheek, puffed out like a chipmunk. He wasn't really thinking anything suggestive, but the way Tommy's face immediately flushes crimson is certainly promising.

"Um," Tommy says, following Lovett through the open front door and into the kitchen. "That would be, uh. Good. Cool. If you want."

"Sure, Tommy," Lovett says, feeling calmer and more confident with every step he takes. This is fine. Or it will be fine. He's safe.

They unload the groceries and pack the pantry; by the time Lovett's toweled off from a quick shower, Emily and Hanna have decided to make the sugar cookies while the lasagna defrosts. He tries to step in and help but ends up nearly burning his palm on the stovetop.

"Jon Lovett: fire hazard," Em says, trying to shove him out of the kitchen. "I'm going to get that printed on bumper stickers. Maybe t-shirts. It'll be new merch for people to buy. The fans will go wild."

"Is he a fire hazard because he's so…" Hanna starts, leaning into Emily and dipping her voice down low, "… hot?"

"Alright, alright," he protests, starting to back out of the room. The less he makes himself a nuisance in the kitchen the better.

Still, it's hard not to watch them together; fingers intertwined as Hanna's head dips down to rest against Em's shoulder. It's disgustingly domestic. He can't imagine what he and Ronan look like from the outside, but he hopes it's something similar.

"I'm calling Ronan and taking Pundit out to pee," Lovett says, ignoring the aching tone in his voice, eternally grateful that neither Hanna or Emily comment on it.

"Say hi," Em says, pulling back and tying her hair up into a ponytail. "Tell him we miss him."

"Tell him he better not punk out on Europe," Hanna says. "I have so many questions about the Weinstein thing."

"I'm not sure if," Lovett starts, startled when his phone starts buzzing in his pocket. "Oh hey," he says, holding up the screen for them to see. "Speak of the devil."

"Hey, baby," Ronan says when the line connects. The lights in his office are dimmed, but the bags under his eyes are darker, and his hair is limp as it flops over his forehead. "Oh, hi. Hey ladies. How were the slopes?"

Lovett hands his phone to Hanna, who reaches for it first, waxing on for a second about a trick Tommy tried and failed to master at the resort.

While they chat, Emily sidles closer nudging his calf with her socked toes. "You okay?" she asks. "You're quiet. I can't tell if it's 'wow, am I dead because of all that physical exertion today' tired or 'I'm in the middle of an existential midlife crisis' tired." 

"I," Lovett says, and then takes a moment to sink into it. "The first one, I think. I feel good."

"Good," Em says. She looks tired too, but she leans in and kisses his cheek anyway, gone a second later as she leans in to argue a point that Hanna is making about the relative ease she beat Tommy with.

"I left him in the dust," she says, grinning wildly as she and Emily highfive. "He'd never let me win, either, so I know it was fair and square."

"I can corroborate this," Lovett agrees, taking the phone back. "I've known Tommy for almost a decade, and I can promise you, he's never let me win a single thing." Ronan laughs, and Lovett whistles for Pundit as he leaves the kitchen, holding the phone at eye level as he scoops her up with his free hand. "We're going outside, okay?" he says, breath catching as he watches Ronan watch them.

"I miss you," Ronan says, rubbing his eyes. He's not wearing his glasses, and he looks at least five years younger. "Fuck, Jon. Why don't I ever miss you less?"

It's a testament to how exhausted he feels that Lovett feels the weight of it sinking into his shoulders. It's quiet outside, not quite as cold as it was up on the mountain but still chilly, and Pundit snuffles when Lovett coughs. "Absence makes the heart grow fonder?" he tries, voice cracking. "Shit, I don't know. I ask myself that question all the time." He puts on a smile. "At least we'll have a lot of time in Connecticut."

"Yeah," Ronan says, exhaling slowly. "I'll put a moratorium on work at the farm."

"I promise not to let you near any devices, except maybe the Nintendo Switch," Lovett says, solemn, and relaxes into his smile when Ronan laughs again.

When Pundit finishes milling around the yard, Lovett herds her back inside. He can hear Emily and Hanna's murmured conversation in the kitchen, still, but not Jon or Tommy. 

"Hey," Lovett says, poking his head into the kitchen, Pundit shuffling along by his feet. "Can I help?"

"No," Emily and Hanna chorus, though not exactly in unison, which makes it only slightly less like the twins from The Shining.

"These people have a huge TV, with an enormous array of DVDs," he says, changing tracks easily. He's cooked before, it's possible he's even made food without burning it, but he's hard-pressed to think of when the last time that might have been. "How about this," he says. "I pick out a movie and stay out of your hair, and when you're done in the kitchen, I'll make your significant others help me clean up the mess. Sound good?"

"Knowing your strengths and weaknesses is really sexy, Lovett," Hanna says. "Way to capitalize on that."

Emily laughs. "Jon is pretty allergic to household chores, but I bet you can convince him it's worth his while."

"Where _is_ Jon?" Lovett asks. "Where's Tommy? Did the house eat them? On second thought, that's terrifying." Maybe this _is_ The Shining.

"I know Tommy was going to nap," Hanna says. "I rode him pretty hard out there." She widens her eyes innocently. "Maybe check our room?"

"Okay," Lovett says. "Pundit, stay." If this turns out to be a haunted AirBnB, the least he can do is give his dog a fighting chance of staying alive.

The silence further inside the house doesn't feel quite so welcoming anymore. He turns the light on in the hallway. The bathroom's empty, though there's leftover steam clinging to the glass from whoever showered last.

There's no one in Hanna and Tommy's room either, and as Lovett shuffles down to Emily and Jon's, in the back corner of the house, he mutters, "I swear to God, if someone's about to jump out at me, as a—as a prank or whatever, I'm going to eviscerate—"

No one jumps out at him as he pushes through the door. Lovett still cuts himself off anyway, blinking rapidly, as Jon and Tommy spring apart at the center of the room. It doesn't take much, from the pink flush high on Tommy's face to the wet slickness of Jon's lips, to figure out what they were probably doing.

 _Oh_ , he thinks. "Sorry," he says, suddenly breathless, ears ringing. He backpedals as fast as he can, almost stumbling over his own heels. "Sorry, I didn't mean to—wow. You guys can get back to—"

"Lovett," Tommy says, taking a step toward him. "Hold on."

"No, it's fine, I'm really glad you've decided to—"

"Lovett," Jon says. "We haven't decided anything. We were just—"

Tommy glances at Jon, brief and warm, and shrugs when he looks back at Lovett. "We were just trying something out. It's, uh, been a while."

"Oh," Lovett says, swallowing around the dry patch in his throat. "Was it as good as you remembered?"

Jon makes a soft noise. "I think we need to do it again to really be sure," he says, gaze darting between them, a little wild-eyed.

Lovett rocks back on his heels, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Don't let me stop you," he says, steadier than he feels.

It feels like it happens in slow-motion, like something plucked straight out of Lovett's more fanciful, indulgent fantasies, Tommy's hands settling against Jon's hips and Jon reaching up to cup Tommy's neck. It isn't a particularly filthy kiss, but it is deep, and long, and it takes some effort for Lovett to swallow again.

"Well," he says into the humming silence, half-turning on his heel. "I hope you'll be very happy with this new development of your relationship."

"Jon, don't be stupid," Tommy says. He's even pinker than he was before. "Get over here."

Lovett takes a hesitant step toward them, and then another, and another, lets them fold their arms around his back. "Weirdest football huddle I've ever been a part of," he mutters, staring straight ahead at where Jon and Tommy's shoulders are touching.

"Do you not, uh," Jon says. Up close like this, Lovett can practically count his freckles, less obvious than Tommy's, but no less present. "We can do this privately, I guess," Jon says, and Lovett feels the swooping ache of being left out starting to build in his stomach. "—never want to keep anything from you."

"I'm sorry," Lovett says, tuning back in. "What was that?"

Jon thumbs against Lovett's pulse point, still a little dazed, but mostly fond when he says, "Clearly this is something I— _we_ want to try, but I don't. I never want to keep anything from you."

The jealousy clawing through his insides disappears almost as quickly as it had arrived, pooling into invisible smoke as Lovett leans his face against Jon's shoulder and breathes deep. 

"I want to watch," Lovett says. It feels like his whole body is about to burst into flame. "Fuck, I would be so jealous if I knew you were doing this, and you weren't doing it with, uh." Fuck. "With me," he finishes, trying to be brave.

"Hey," Jon says, pressing his palm to Lovett's jaw, holding his gaze gently. "Jon. Please do this thing with Tommy and me, huh? I want you to."

"Me too," Tommy agrees.

It doesn't escape Lovett's notice that Tommy's voice is hoarse. He turns to look at Tommy, smiling up at him. 

"Using your words," he says, leaning up on his tiptoes to press his mouth to the corner of Tommy's. "That's good. Is that how you figured it out?"

Tommy huffs. "I tried to talk, and Jon just—he just kissed me instead—"

"I was overwhelmed!" Jon says, leaning in close, and then Lovett's sandwiched between them again as they talk over his head. "This is an overwhelming situation. I was overwhelmed. This whole time I thought you didn't want—"

"We just never talked about it," Tommy says, sounding wounded. "After we stopped, you never once—"

Jon takes a deep breath, and then says, very quietly, "There's messing around with your buddy for stress relief, and then there's messing around with your buddy because you're having a sexuality crisis you weren't aware of, and then there's the third thing, one and two combined, which is messing around with your best friend, maybe the best friend you've ever had, during the most terrifying, most important work you might ever do, and then realizing halfway through that you have no idea what you're doing, so… so wouldn't it be better to quit while you're ahead instead of, I don't know, fucking things up irreparably? You didn't say anything either, Tom."

Tommy's face and neck are flushed scarlet. "It's, fine. It's whatever. You kissed me five minutes ago, which is frankly more than I ever thought I'd get again without a lot of liquid courage."

Lovett could say anything here. If Jon deserves chastising, Tommy does too. They were both cowards, but fear does that to people. Lovett would know.

"Hanna called you stubborn idiots who don't know what's best for them," Lovett supplies helpfully, because he doesn't think she'll mind the admission, and then Jon's curling his face into the curve of Lovett's shoulder, shaking with laughter, and Tommy's leaning down to kiss him again, and Lovett feels so light that he might float away without the anchor of their bodies.

;;

Dinner is weirdly quiet. Or maybe it's not that weird, when everyone's too preoccupied with stuffing their faces to talk or play footsie under the table. The lasagna is tastier than he'd expected, and that cheesy heartiness is exactly what his stomach was looking for after such an arduous day.

Lovett does the dishes after, both because it seems like Hanna and Em are finally running out of stream midway through their meal, but also because the quiet solitude of the kitchen is a kind of relief. Sharing a house with four other people and a dog is a lot of togetherness, even if they are four of his favorite people, and Pundit is his best girl.

As he wipes down the tomato sauce-spattered stove top, his phone buzzes with a picture from Spencer, a selfie of him holding up a pre-packaged container of Snickerdoodle bake-and-breaks. 

_I finally just ordered them_ , the message says. _They were less than three dollars, and they taste like they cost at least ten. Favreau has the best ideas._

Lovett stifles a laugh, sending back, _You're telling me. Glad you found them!_

He sets his phone aside as he keeps tidying up, not surprised, when he checks again, that Spencer has continued texting. _How's the trip so far? Did you guys finally snap and kill each other yet? Do I have to fly out there and help you hide a body?_

They don't always talk about their personal lives, but that's as good an opening as he's ever going to get. He's met Spencer's boyfriends and girlfriends; the casual hookups he has, the work friends who tag along and hang out, open and friendly, just wanting to include him because Spencer always has, and it's _so great_ to still be close with your best friend from college.

 _About that_ , Lovett sends back. _No bodies, but there is some stuff I should probably give you a heads up about._

"Hey," Tommy says quietly, standing in the mouth of the hallway, giving Lovett the fright of his life. 

"What the fuck," he nearly shouts, palm pressed to his chest as he accidentally throws his phone. "Tommy, wear a bell! God."

Tommy laughs, rubbing at the corners of his eyes. "Sorry," he says. "Are you okay? Didn't mean to scare you. We started firing up the hot tub this morning before we left, and it should be nice and toasty now, I think. Jon's going to get his suit. Want to join us?"

"Um," Lovett says, glancing back down at his phone. "Yeah, sure. Thanks for the heads up. I'll be out in a second."

 _What's up?_ says Spencer's text, when Tommy's disappeared toward the back of the house again.

 _Ronan and I have been exploring nonmonogamy for a while_ , Lovett sends, ripping off the bandaid. _That has extended to some of the people on this vacation with me._ It's a little too clinical, but he doesn't know how else to phrase it without sharing too many details, or sounding monumentally stupid.

 _WAIT_ , Spencer replies, lightning fast. _Are you sleeping with Favreau? Were the break-and-bakes a ruse to get me out of your house? Has this all been A LIE?_

Lovett laughs out loud, picking up the last plate and shoving it in the drying rack. _Hey, you managed to get some great cookies out of it, so I think it's a net positive for you._

Spencer sends back a couple of laughing emoji. _Yeah, I guess you're right._ Lovett ducks into his room to scoop his swimming trunks out of his suitcase and shimmy into them, and when he looks at his phone again, Spencer's sent, _Anyway, that's cool, man. Thanks for telling me. I'm happy for you._

 _I'm happy for me, too_ , Lovett sends back, with a sunglasses emoji. _How are things with Jessica?_

It's nippy outside when he steps through the door; Pundit doesn't follow him out, choosing to curl up at the window and stare out through the glass at the backyard instead. The cover of the big hot tub has been hoisted to lean against the wall, and steam's billowing up from the water. Through the mist, he can just see Emily and Hanna's heads bent together.

"Well," Lovett says, leaning against the rim of the tub and squinting at them. "This is intimate."

"I just walked in on Tommy rubbing baby oil on Jon's shoulders," Hanna says, tipping her head back so she can meet his eyes upside down. "Pretty sure baby oil trumps hand holding in the, uh, sexy time tub Olympics."

Emily laughs, lifting her free hand to her mouth, like that can possibly hold back the sound. She's unsuccessful, but watching her try is cute. Sweeter still is how she leans her head against Hanna's, leaving a brief kiss against the shell of her ear.

"How did I not realize how weird and inappropriate both of you are?" she asks, looking between Hanna and Lovett. "You're so eerily similar. Honestly, it's wild."

"Hell yeah," Hanna crows, lifting her fist out of the water so they can bump knuckles as Lovett eases his way in on the other side.

"I take that as a compliment," he agrees, eyeing them. He can't quite make out their hands underwater, but he's not sure how entirely innocent it is. "How fun, that I can still pass for a 24 year old. How cool."

It's Hanna's turn to roll her eyes. "Ronan is only a year and a half older than me, Jon. You know that, right?"

"And you look so good!" Lovett says, but he can't quite keep the straight face, laughing halfway through.

That's how Tommy and Jon find them, shivering as they walk out through the screen door, clad in only shorts and shower shoes.

"Please tell me the water is warm," Jon mumbles, blowing on his hands as he drops his towel on one of the wooden benches and kicking off his sandals. "Fuck, it's cold out here." He shuffles over and drops a kiss on Emily's mouth, quick and filthy, and then flips over the edge.

He's submerged himself in seconds, poking his head back up again when he's only a few inches away. Damp as they are, his eyelashes shouldn't still be so alluring—what a stupid thing to be attracted to, god—but Lovett can't stop looking anyway, lifting his hand out of the steamy water to press his fingers to Jon's face.

"Hi," Jon says. It's objectively pretty silly, but Lovett whispers it back, leans in and scoots close enough that their lips touch.

A few seconds later, the water shifts, and Lovett feels Tommy sinking down next to him. His palm is big on the small of Lovett's back, but he doesn't do anything else to interrupt, just makes himself known. By the time Lovett pulls away from Jon, Tommy's skin is already starting to turn pink from the steam.

"Can I," he says, curiously stilted. Lovett rolls his eyes, fits a hand around Tommy's neck, and yanks him down. He tastes like the wine they had with dinner, and Lovett knows that it's impossible for his mouth to be hotter than the heated water bubbling around them, but it still feels that way. He is distantly aware of the eyes on them, but for the first time, or at least the first time in a while, he doesn't feel quite so self-conscious about it.

When they break apart, Lovett glances up toward the sky for a moment to catch his breath, and then squirms so he's sitting cross-legged on the ledge inside the tub, chin dipping into the water.

"Not that I'm diametrically opposed to a hot tub orgy," he says, trying to sound stern but missing by a mile. "Because I'm not. I've seen the porn." Hanna laughs, scratchy and loud. "But that doesn't seem very hygienic, and besides, it's not, um. This—" He makes a grand gesture around at all of them, splashing himself in the face in the process. "It isn't just a one-off sex thing, right? We've got time to explore our options. We can take it slow, if we want." He cuts a glance toward Jon. "Tommy and Jon literally just decided they might be allowed to touch each other's dicks again, so. Not everything has to happen all at once."

"Oh my God," Jon says, kind of choked, pulling a hand over his face. Tommy starts laughing too, the sound rumbling through his body and reverberating through Lovett's too.

"I mean," Lovett says, shrugging. "Hanna said you were oiling each other down like Roman warriors. How can this possibly be a surprise?"

"Good reveal," Emily says, dry, and Hanna grins at him, eyes sharp, before she turns to press her mouth against the round part of Tommy's shoulder.

"Anyway," Tommy says, face bright as a tomato. He drops a kiss in Hanna's damp hair and raises his eyebrows. "Kissing's good though, right?"

"The kissing is very good," Lovett agrees, "and I would be very annoyed if it stopped," stretching his toes out so they bump up against someone's legs—he's not even sure whose in the tangle—and smiles when Jon shifts over to press their mouths together again.

They stay in the water until their fingertips are all pruney, skin tight. "I feel like a boiled lobster," Lovett says, padding back into the cabin with a bath towel wrapped around his shoulders. By the time he's changed into dry sleep clothes and finished brushing his teeth, Pundit's curled up in her doggy bed, dead to the world.

 _You'll never guess what happened today_ , Lovett sends Ronan, burrowing into his own covers, and passes out before he can even wait for a message in return.

;;

He wakes up late the next morning to the smell of breakfast and coffee, sore legs, and scattered texts from Ronan that have nothing to do with the bait he dropped the previous night: about a source standing him up, about the gross weather in New York, about the bodega close to the office running out of the good everything bagels.

 _I'm sorry_ , Lovett types back, attaching a few more photos of Pundit hiking and one of Emily smearing tomato sauce on Tommy after dinner last night. _Call when you can._

"We took Pundit out for a walk already," Jon says, when Lovett finally pulls himself out of bed and into the living room. He peeks down to where she's sprawled lazily between Emily and Tommy's tangled legs, flopped on her back, and practically begging for belly rubs.

"I see how it is," Lovett says, sliding onto the floor in front of the couch, and pressing his face against Tommy's plaid-clad knee. "You just roll over and everybody's begging to touch you, huh?"

Jon doesn't sit, hovering a bit, trying to light the fire Tommy had been fiddling with the other night. He's not looking, but Lovett hears him clear as a bell when he says, "You want me to touch you like that, you just say the word, Jon."

Shit. 

"Um," Lovett says, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep. He should be inured to that tone in Jon's voice by now, but since they started this, his self control has been tenuous at best. "Can you put your voice away, please? It's still so early. I haven't even brushed my teeth yet."

"There's a jewelry store in town I wanted to take a walk through," Hanna says, coming out of the kitchen holding a mug of coffee. "Em wanted to buy a pair of cowboy boots, too. Want to join us?"

Jon is making a face he's trying to hide, but Tommy, with his head on Emily's shoulder, doesn't bother shielding his disinterest.

"Veto," he says as Emily shoves him. "Can't we just hang out here? I can make a frittata for lunch, we'll watch some movies. We'll figure out the fire situation!"

"Tom," Emily says, patting his cheek. "Just because you want to get off—"

"Hey, frittata wasn't a euphemism—"

"—doesn't mean we don't have things we want to do. An agenda."

"You guys should go," Tommy argues, flushing. "Jon and Jon and I can hold down the fort."

Emily snorts, smacking a kiss to Tommy's mouth as she pushes him aside. Lovett's stomach flips at the sight. "I think Lovett's coming with us. You know how much he loves to shop."

"I loooove it," Lovett deadpans. "So much fun."

"That's the spirit," Hanna says, plopping down next on Tommy's other side, and kissing him too. "Come on, handsome. Walk around with me."

"Yeah," Em agrees, winking. "I'm sure Lovett will make it worth your while later."

Grumbling aside, it _is_ a nice day to be out and about after Lovett scarfs down some food and gets two cups of coffee in his stomach. Downtown Park City isn't huge, but there actually turn out to be four jewelry places within a two mile radius. On the way to the one Hanna wanted to look through, Lovett takes a picture of an Escape Room storefront they walk past and sends it to Spencer.

 _booking my ticket right now_ , he replies, with three airplane emojis, and then Hanna's coercing all of them into a selfie with the mountain rising up behind to send to her parents.

Pundit isn't allowed into the jewelry shop, which they probably should've all expected. "Park City isn't Los Angeles," Lovett says apologetically, bending down to bop her on the head.

"We'll stay out here with Lovett," Jon says too quickly, the most transparent pivot in the world. Emily rolls her eyes and gives Pundit a pet of her own before disappearing inside with Hanna.

"Oh, look, a t-shirt shop," Lovett says drily, pointing across the street. Pundit trots over and getting up on her front paws, patting the window. There's a display of brightly colored baseball caps hanging over the folded shirts laid out with picture frames and snowglobes.

"Yeah, because you definitely need more of those," Tommy says, leaned in so close to peer through the glass that Lovett can smell his aftershave.

"You know what the Farrow family is like," Lovett says, sidling through the door. "Huge, lots of kids. Gotta get them something interesting for the holidays."

Tommy wanders over to a shelf of sweatshirts and starts flipping through them. Jon nods and smiles at the lady behind the counter sorting through onesies, and Lovett takes a picture of an orange shirt with a moose decal on the front. _Think the twins would like these?_ he sends, biting his lip.

Ronan's doing that thing where he's just reacting to messages by heart-ing or thumbs-up-ing them in their text chain, which probably means that he's neck deep in work. It's happened more often over the past year for obvious reasons. He should probably be glad Ronan hasn't dropped off the grid entirely; in July, he'd gone three days without a peep, and if Lovett had kissed him a little more emphatically the next time they saw each other, Ronan at least had the grace not to mention it.

A chin hooks over his shoulder, and a hand lands on his hip through the thick material of his coat. "Gonna get anything?" Jon murmurs, and when Lovett looks up, Tommy's leaning against the shelf watching them, a small smile on his face.

"I might," Lovett says, turning his head to blow into Jon's ear and worming out from his grasp as Jon huffs and scoots back. "If you'll let me finish engaging in some wholesome present shopping, you can get as handsy as you want later, okay?"

Tommy tosses a casual arm around Jon's neck, other hand tucked in his pocket, and then they're both grinning at him. It could be any other moment at the office or on tour, except that somehow, over the past ten days, the world's been totally turned on its head. Funny how quickly things change. Funny, the little quiver in Lovett's stomach as he stares back at them.

"That a promise?" Tommy says, fingers sliding past the collar of Jon's fluffy coat, curling against his skin. Jon exhales, slow and easy, and stays still.

"It can be," Lovett says, breathier than he likes, and turns abruptly to march further into the shop to find something for Bennett. 

Hanna texts a little after noon to meet them back out on Main Street; she eyes the plastic bag Lovett's holding with interest. "Ended up shopping after all, huh," she says, the corner of her mouth rising.

"Sometimes," Lovett replies, prim, "when you have twelve kids to buy Christmas presents for, you have to just bite the bullet."

Outside, big fat flakes of snow are starting to spiral down from the sky. Pundit sticks her tongue out to try to catch them, which is cute until Lovett's neck gets prickly and wet. Emily links arms with Lovett as they duck under the awning of a winery, Hanna and Tommy gazing with interest into the window display. When Lovett checks his phone again, Ronan's loved the photo of the moose shirt.

"What's wrong?" Emily says, reaching up to tug at the pom of Lovett's beanie.

Lovett puts on a smile, tucks his phone back in his pocket. "Nothing."

"Hmm," she says, narrowing her eyes, and then, brighter: "Come on. Let's get you in a cowboy hat."

"Oh, God, no," Lovett says, laughing already, and lets Emily drag him in the direction of the right shop anyway.

They grab a late lunch at some place Hanna finds on Yelp before heading back to the cabin. By the time they shuffle through the door, stamping snow from their boots, Lovett's eyes are heavy. It's not late in the day, but the sky is overcast enough to make it look dark out. Maybe it's the high altitude. Maybe his body just hasn't adjusted to the time zone switch just yet. Whatever it is, he slumps over onto the couch and burrows in.

When Tommy sits down next to him, Lovett says, "We can do dirty shit later," on a yawn. "I'll, ah. I'll blow your mind as soon as I can keep my eyes open for longer than three seconds."

He can feel Jon's fingers on his leg, a warm, comforting weight. He'd be able to tell that touch anywhere just from memory. 

"Get some sleep, babe," he says, voice soft. "We'll still be here when you wake up."

Above him, Tommy says something, voice low and distinct, and Pundit barks, somewhere further away, probably begging to be let out again, or for more of that special occasion beef jerky.

Lovett rolls over to answer her but finds himself smushing his face against Tommy's thigh instead, breathing in the clean smell of his laundry detergent and the scent of the Irish Spring soap he still uses.

"S'nice," he says, and the last thing he remembers is fingers in his hair, a hand on his back, and the slow warmth of a body curling next to his.

He wakes up again to a thump from the kitchen. It's even darker out, the sun continuing its heavy descent, and Lovett's shirt has dragged up over his stomach, the heat of someone's arm tucked across his waist.

"What time is it?" Lovett asks. He's not sure if anyone else is awake, except for whoever is in the kitchen. Even Pundit is zonked out. 

Someone dragged her dog bed out of his room and tucked it in front of the fireplace, so she can stay toasty, which is nice. He worries about her.

"Mmm," Tommy groans, rolling forward and pressing a kiss to the back of Lovett's neck. "You smell good."

It's not the first time they've ever collapsed on a bed together, but Lovett can't stop cataloguing the differences. The one and only time they'd done something sexual before now, Tommy had cleaned himself up and left right afterward. Lovett wonders if he's thinking about it, if he's regretting this intimacy.

"Okay, Jon," Tommy says, moving his lips from Lovett's neck to his ear, scraping his teeth against the shell. "What's wrong?"

There's nothing wrong, so Lovett repeats it. He's comfortable in the circle of Tommy's arms, lazy from sleep and the cobwebs that still need to be shaken out of his eyes.

"I'm just. Tommy, you're not really Mister Close and Cuddly. I'm not either, obviously, but I am also not Hanna or Lucca, and you left my house right after the one time we screwed around, so—"

"Lovett," Tommy whispers. His voice is so low, goosebumps break out on both their arms. "Did you want me to stay?"

"Do you usually stay?" Lovett volleys back, even though it doesn't really matter. Even though it's none of his—"Is that my business now? Am I allowed to know who and what and how? Can I ask those questions?"

That the answer could be _yes_ seems impossible, but the world is full of impossible things, and if the last two weeks are any indication, they're getting more impossible by the moment.

"You can always ask," Tommy says, rolling his hips forward again. "So did you?"

"I want you to stay now," Lovett answers, because that's more true than anything else. "If we're actually doing something, and it's—if it's semi-permanent. Yeah. Please. I want you to stay. If we. If we're in a situation again where you come to my house after a work day, then—"

"And Jon isn't there," Tommy butts in, nipping at the back of his neck again. Lovett lets his eyes slip shut again.

"Jon is," he says, breathy and high, gasping as Tommy fits his hand against his dick. "Jon isn't always at my house."

"Jon is right here," the man himself says, and Lovett's eyes fly open, catches Jon sitting in the armchair kitty corner to the TV. His phone is on his thigh, and he looks a little sleepy too, hair sticking up on the right side of his head. "Do you want me to stay over more?"

Lovett can't think, not with the heel of Tommy's palm grinding against his dick, and Jon's low, warm voice, begging him for an answer across the room.

"I always want you around," Lovett admits, echoing Jon's sentiment from yesterday morning, blushing fiercely and wishing he weren't. "I always—Jon."

"Can I fuck you?" Tommy asks. 

Whatever else Lovett might have said is lost. When Tommy grinds forward, Lovett can feel the long, pulsing girth of him, hot through their clothes, like a brand on his skin.

"God," Lovett groans, just as Jon says, "Fuck, _please_. Can I watch. Lovett, please, can I—"

"Yes," he says, to both of them, hitching his hips back. "Yeah. Tommy, I brought the condoms that you said to. They're in my…" his voice trails off as Tommy's nimble fingers undo the buttons on Lovett's fly and finally, _finally_ , curl around his dick. He lets his head fall back against Tommy's shoulder, eyes sliding up to meet Jon's again. "I think I stuffed them in the bottom of my suitcase. Jon. Sweetheart." Jon inhales, sharp. "Could you please go and get them?"

Even in this lighting, Jon is beautiful. Jon is lit up from the inside, like lightning bugs live beneath his skin. 

Jon says, "Yes, of course," flipping on one of the lamps as he goes, making the living room a little brighter.

Hanna and Emily are on the other forward facing couch. Lovett can't tell if they're awake, can't make out any space between them at all.

"Has, um," he whispers. Trying to have a conversation with Tommy's fingers curled around his dick isn't going to be easy, but Lovett takes a breath and forges ahead. "Has Hanna ever. Has she watched you fuck a hookup before?" 

Tommy shifts again, balancing on one hand so that they can make an awkward bit of eye contact over Lovett's shoulder. "You aren't a hookup."

"That's not what I—not what I asked." 

Tommy smiles. "Yes, she has. Not all the time, but yeah. I told you. Sometimes we pick up together."

"I don't know if I could do that," he says, trying not to cry out when Tommy starts moving his hand again. "I'd have to—I'd want to know the person Ronan was fucking, and even then, when it was Shannon, I—he loved it, so how could I hate it? But I—"

Oh, thank fuck Jon is back, stumbling into the living room with his pants off. He's holding the whole box of condoms, and an unfamiliar little bottle of lube. His mouth is bitten red, and Lovett wants to kiss him more than anything. 

Tommy whispers, "Budge up a bit so I can get my pants off, okay? Get yours down too, Lovett. Come on. Please."

Correction: he wants to kiss Jon almost more than anything. Lovett squirms his jeans down, kicking them off along with his socks and underwear, pressing back until his ass bumps against Tommy's bare cock.

"Jon should," Lovett mumbles, catching Jon's eyes again and watching as he flicks his tongue over his lips. "You should be touching yourself too."

"Yeah, okay," Jon says, tossing Tommy the condoms and the lube, and then sitting on the floor in front of Tommy and Lovett's couch. He has a tight, sure grip, Lovett remembers, but also, Lovett can _see_ , watching Jon strip himself efficiently, eyes skipping from Tommy's grip on Lovett's dick, and their faces, and then back again.

He's panting slightly, the tiny noises sliding past his lips like a song, and Lovett wants to kiss him again, wants Tommy inside him already, wants both of them with him.

"I can't believe," Lovett says, but there's no way to end the sentence in a way that makes sense. There must be a German term for the twist in Lovett's chest when he thinks about missing Ronan and feeling so fucking grateful for him at the same time, but he can't think of it.

The moment dangles, suspended, until he hears the snick of the lube cap, the zipping gurgle the bottle makes as Tommy squeezes it out and onto his fingers. He lets go of Lovett's cock, free hand keeping balanced on his hip, starting with two fingers already, crooking them slowly, slowly inside of Lovett's begging body. 

"Fuck," Lovett gasps, but the word doesn't hit the air, because Jon is surging up and kissing him, his hand taking Tommy's place on Lovett's dick, aching and already leaking between them.

Their mouths are off kilter, but who cares? Who _cares_ , when Tommy's fingers are sinking deeper inside of him, and Jon's tongue is dancing along the seam of his mouth? Who cares, when Tommy whispers, "Can you take another?" His palm is gripped so tightly on Lovett's hip, where his shirt has ridden up—he's still wearing his shirt, and both Tommy and Jon are too, how ridiculous, but who cares, because Tommy fits a third finger along with the other two, long and thick.

"Fuck," Lovett grunts, or maybe it's Jon, whose lips have drifted to his cheek, further up, mouthing desperately at the slope of his forehead, free hand tangled with Tommy's over his hip.

"Fuck, you're so tight," Tommy blurts, pushing forward again. 

On every grind, Lovett can feel Tommy's cock, already fattened up, hard and insistent against the small of his back. If his fingers are this big, Lovett isn't sure he'll be able to take his dick, honestly, unsure if his body can handle it, but—but Christ, what a way to go, what a way to—

"Fuck," Lovett repeats, too loud, but it doesn't matter. Everyone in this room is in on his secret. 

If Em and Hanna are awake now—and they have to be. How could they sleep through all the noise he's making? What a show. He's been displayed before, sure, on camera for Ronan, the both of them messing each other up from continents away, but it's never been like this. He's never been caught between two people, an overwhelming cascade on both sides, Jon's teeth set against his bottom lip, their fingers gripping bruises onto Lovett's skin from how hard they're holding on.

"This angle sucks," Tommy murmurs, and he moves like he's going to flip them, like maybe he'll get Lovett's ass in the air, face pressed against the cushions, or maybe Lovett on his back, staring up at the beams in the ceiling, ankles around his ears.

"Please, please," Lovett gasps. "Please just do it now." It feels like his face is wet, Jon thumbing at his cheeks, replacing his fingers with his mouth as he kisses the tear tracks away. "Tommy, I can—you can do anything you want to me later if you fuck me right now. Like this. Don't wait. Please, _please_."

"Yeah, okay," Tommy says, voice against his ear. He leans forward again, sliding so the head of his dick is there waiting almost as soon as he moves his fingers away.

Lovett can hear himself whining, curling his free hand into Jon's shirt and tugging him impossibly closer, even if he doesn't have the coordination for kisses right now. When Tommy finally, finally pushes inside, he doesn't pause, doesn't wait, just presses deeper and forward until they're completely joined.

"Tommy," Lovett gasps. "Fuck."

Tommy sounds just as winded, voice strained and gravelly as he says, "That's what I'm trying to do."

The sound Lovett makes is supposed to be a laugh, but it comes out too high and ugly to really make it. Jon kisses it out of his mouth anyway, using both hands to grip at Lovett's face. It's not the greatest angle. Tommy was right.

None of it is perfect, especially since all Tommy can really manage are these rocking curves of his hips, but it doesn't matter. Lovett is so full his brain is completely blank, overwhelmed with kisses, covered in sweat. He loses time. It's easy when all he can see in his periphery is Jon's cheek, the dip where his Henley is unbuttoned into a low vee. Tommy's soft grunts keep him grounded, melodious and guttural. 

It's different than when Jon had fucked him, completely opposite than how Ronan does it too, but it feels good, this newness. It doesn't feel foreign or strange, even though it's the first time. Maybe that's because it's Tommy, and his scent is always the same. His big hands feel familiar even in this brand new reality.

"God, I'm so close," Jon says. _Jon_ is so close, just from watching Lovett take it, just from how the three of them are squeezed so tightly together. "Lovett, you're so—"

"Feels good," Tommy whispers. "Do you feel good too?"

Lovett nods, gasping, and Jon mumbles, "I know how to make him feel better," his mouth red and plush as he pulls back and away.

"This is—" Lovett groans, missing the warmth, the contact, missing _Jon_ so acutely that he aches. "You moving away is not. You can't just." 

Jon doesn't go far, scooting down just a few inches as he curls his hands around Lovett's leaking dick again and then seals his pretty lips right over the head. 

Lovett comes. 

Maybe it doesn't happen right away. Maybe he thrusts twice. Lasts longer than a minute, something respectable. He has no idea. His vision whites out as he collapses forward, losing the precarious edge he had on gravity, face turning into the couch cushions.

Somewhere above him, Tommy says, "Should I keep…?" and Lovett nods. He tries to wave his hand as an acknowledgement, tries to speak, but all his words are gone, and Jon atrophied all the muscles in his body with his perfect, gorgeous mouth.

It takes longer than usual for it to become too much, for his body to start squirming away from the steady press of Tommy's dick. Tommy sighs as he slides out, and he carefully turns Lovett onto his back, which gives Lovett a perfect view of the moment Jon, still kneeling on the floor, drags his eyes off Lovett and starts looking at Tommy instead.

 _Oh_ , Lovett thinks, heart beating in his throat. 

"Um," Jon says, ducking his head, suddenly bashful, like he didn't just have Lovett's dick crammed in his mouth. Typical Jon. Typical everyone, really, from the way Tommy palms the back of his neck to how pink his face is.

"Come here?" Tommy says quietly, framed as a question, somehow managing to imbue it with so much gravitas that even _Lovett_ feels heavy waiting for Jon to respond. A question at least ten years in the making.

There's a quiet noise from the other couch, and when Lovett blinks over, eyes having adjusted to the light, Emily and Hanna are intertwined. He can't see all their hands, but he can guess what they might be doing, what they might already have done. Jon glances over at them, and then back at Lovett, and then at Tommy again, the corner of his mouth curling up into a smile. 

"Yeah," Jon says, "okay," and pulls himself up into Tommy's lap.

It doesn't take either of them long, too keyed up to last, and Jon reaches out to pull Lovett in, the wet drag of his kiss getting sloppier as Tommy's hand moves between them. Lovett can feel it when Tommy comes, tension uncoiling through his body. Jon slumps over a moment later, his hips twitching, and then they're just three sweaty, pantless guys gasping on a couch, pressed as close to each other as they can be. It should feel more absurd than it does.

"Should we—do we need to do some sort of after action report?" Tommy asks, breathless, and Jon snorts, flopping off Tommy and craning his neck back to stare up at the ceiling. "How do you feel?"

"You're a nerd," Lovett says. He wiggles into his boxer-briefs again, sinks back so his head falls against the armrest of the sofa, stretches his legs out across theirs. "Sweaty, and I'm still sore from yesterday. But mostly, I feel good."

Jon squeezes a hand around Lovett's ankle. "Me too."

"So do we," Emily says, voice drifting over loud and clear, and Hanna's snorting now too, high and thready. Tommy's face turns an even more brilliant shade of red. "Thanks for the show. It was very, um, inspirational."

"High marks from Russian judge," Hanna says, deploying her perfect accent work again. "9.5 out of 10 stars."

"I guess it's always good to know that there's room for improvement," Lovett says, dry. "Gotta try for perfect marks next time." He grins when the whole room dissolves into laughter.

It takes more effort than Lovett would like to admit to detangle himself and hobble into the bathroom. He gets cleaned up in a daze, staring at his reflection in the mirror. It takes forever for his heartbeat to slow down, and it'll take longer still to process everything that's happened, but he doesn't feel stressed about it. He's got time. He sends Ronan a quick text to call later if he can and then hops in the shower to rinse himself off.

They reconvene slowly later in the evening, the smell of cookies and hot chocolate drawing them all out. Lovett and Pundit situate themselves on the floor in the living room, playing tug-of-war with one of her chew toys. Jon trails in after Tommy and Hanna holding a stack of mugs. Emily comes out with a bunch of different bowls of icing to decorate cookies with, licking a bit of it off one of Jon's fingers, rubbing pink and purple cream in everyone else's faces until Tommy says something about not racking up the AirBnB cleaning fees, sternness belied by the grin on his face.

It feels the same as it always does, whether they're lounging out by the pool in the heat of summer or in the Favreaus' outside room watching Game of Thrones together on Sundays in July, Pundit begging for treats from anyone who will pay attention to her. Even so, everything is just a little bit different. Lovett likes it.

Tommy's flipping through the enormous DVD collection beneath the coffee table trying to decide what they should watch when he looks up, holding a box set of _Westworld_. He narrows his eyes at Lovett, and says, "Wait. When you mentioned Shannon earlier—Shannon Woodward has fucked Ronan?"

"I mean," Lovett says, blinking at him. "They're good friends, and she's in New York City more often than I am."

"But does she—"

Lovett doesn't wait to hear the conclusion to the sentence. "She does, I promise. She has a wide array of silicone dicks. I have seen them. I have felt them. She's a master at her craft."

In his peripheral vision, he can see Jon blushing, even as Emily says, "I didn't know Ronan was into that," scratching her chin thoughtfully.

Before he can stop himself, Lovett says, "I'd tell him you were interested if he was responding to my texts right now." He bites his lip. "I'd, uh. I might be amenable to watching, if that was on the table. I'm still feeling things out."

For as long as Lovett's known her, Emily has never embarrassed easily, so watching the flush that rises in her face makes him feel pretty good, actually. "Stick a pin in it," she says, glancing at Jon, who raises his eyebrows and sends Lovett a helpless, silly smile.

"Let's put on a Christmas movie," Tommy says, waving a DVD at them. "By that other Jon Favreau."

"Only if you agree to put on a Hanukkah movie tomorrow night," Hanna says, cutting a grin at Lovett, who takes the opportunity to vigorously back her up.

They're five minutes into _Elf_ when Lovett leans over to whisper in Hanna's ear. "You were right about them," he says, nodding at where Jon and Tommy are sitting cross-legged in front of the fire, Pundit laid out between them. "They got it together in the end."

"Yeah, well," Hanna says. "Nudging them seemed to help. So. Maybe we were both right."

He smiles at her. "I'll take it," he says.

;;

Lovett's refilling his glass of water in the kitchen, idly considering skipping the second movie they've put on and go to bed, when his phone buzzes with a text. _come to the front door_ , it says, finally a real message from Ronan after radio silence the entire afternoon and evening.

It still doesn't really click until Lovett pads to the entrance and throws the door open. Sees Ronan in the flesh, bundled up in an oversized camel coat and scarf, standing on the front porch with a small carry-on suitcase at his feet.

"Ronan," Lovett says, blinking. "What?" Pundit wriggles out from behind him, and Ronan smiles. Something in Lovett's chest settles into place with a quiet click of satisfaction. "You're here. How are you here?"

"A plane, and then a Lyft," Ronan says, stamping the snow out of his shoes, eyes shining behind his glasses. "Look, I finished all the stuff I needed to do before the weekend, or at least—there was nothing left that couldn't wait till after Christmas, and I thought—fuck it. Why am I not there? You are. Everyone else is. So I decided to come after all, woefully under-packed. You know, clear eyes, full heart, can't lose." Pundit barks up at him, nosing at his shins, and Ronan leans down to scratch her head. "Hey, darling. I missed you too."

"You—" Lovett says, and then his feet are propelling him out the door and into the snow swirling down from the sky. Ronan's fingers are cold when they curl around his neck, and his nose is cold too when it presses against Lovett's cheek, but the inside of his mouth is hot. This close, Lovett can see the dark circles underneath Ronan's eyes, count the number of creases on his forehead. He probably pulled an all-nighter; Lovett can read between the lines. "You should've said something. I was getting worried when you stopped responding to my messages."

"I wanted it to be a surprise," Ronan says, lips tilting up against his. "I know you love those."

Lovett huffs. "Come in out of the snow," he says, tucking his arm through Ronan's to lead him over the threshold. "We've got so much to tell you, I don't even know where to begin."

"I want to know everything," Ronan says, wheeling his suitcase in and slumping against the door as it closes behind him. "But maybe after a nice, long, uninterrupted night of sleep. Preferably with, you know, some cuddling?" He blinks innocently at Lovett, like he has so many times before, and warmth ripples through Lovett's body all the way down to his toes.

A slow grin eases its way across Lovett's mouth, and he helps Ronan hang his coat on the rack, watches him step out of his shoes and let out a jaw-cracking yawn as he bends down to scoop Pundit in his arms. "I think that can be arranged," Lovett says.

He pulls out his phone and navigates to their group text, sends, _Don't freak out. Ronan's here. He came in on a late flight. WE WILL SEE YOU IN THE MORNING._

Emily sends a string of exclamation points; Hanna sends a string of smirking emojis. Tommy says, _Oh, shit, Farrow coming through in the clutch_ , and then Emily adds, _Jon fell asleep, but I'm sure he'll be excited tomorrow._

Lovett doesn't bother reading the rest of the messages, even though his phone keeps buzzing as he tucks it back in his pocket. They'll still be there in eight hours.

"Let's go to bed," he says, reaching out to twine their fingers together, and Ronan smiles back at him, tired and rumpled and _here_ , and says, "Okay."

**Author's Note:**

> kudos/comments/etc greatly appreciated! we don't think we're done with this universe yet, so. *smirking emoji* let us know what you liked!
> 
> lots of people to thank for this one: gigantic, winterfold, and electr1c_compass for looking at drafts of this and telling us what shit to fix; everyone who held our hands on various social media platforms as we wrote this thing over the past nine months; tove lo, for the title; and you, for making it all the way to the very end. ♥


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